


One was Turning (One was Standing Still)

by nothandlingit



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-22 11:50:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 35,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6078276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothandlingit/pseuds/nothandlingit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s never been a wedding person, never professed to be any sort of expert on the whole thing. Centrepieces have never been her forte, nor have flowers or choosing menus for large amounts of people. But, despite this, she’s pretty certain she’s not supposed to be crying in the restroom at her bachelorette party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We Made Plans to Kiss the Sun at Night

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I’ve been working on this for a while and have a solid four and a half chapters written. It should only be about six or seven all up, so let’s hope for consistent updates! Woo! Thank you to oubliette14 and lifeinahole27 for their support and read throughs and general idea bouncing! 
> 
> Just a little modern AU – basically I wanted to take the idea that we often seen in Lieutenant Duckling fics about Emma being in an arranged marriage situation and bring it to the 21st century; this is what I came up with when I was playing with that. 
> 
> Also, slow burn abounds ;) Enjoy!

She doesn’t let her mind go there too often. It’s usually during late nights alone, over a pint of Ben and Jerry’s – with a healthy dose of Baileys poured straight in the carton – when she’s got some soppy rom com on. Or sometimes it’s when she’s out at a bar with her friends and the music is too loud, the bass jumping under her skin while her mind is free. And, every now and then, it’s when she’s sitting on a train and she sees a couple a few seats ahead of her lean into each other like they have the whole world at their very feet. But in the last 12 years, she has only, very briefly, let her mind go to that particular memory. Of fingertips curled around lapels, of breaths, laced with spiced rum, mingling in the crowded room on the small boat, of the green laser lights bouncing off their flushed cheeks and of the heavy silence that had surrounded them as their lips just barely brushed, a whisper of a kiss during the heady summer heat that surrounded them in amongst the end of high school euphoria.

It had been fleeting and reckless and so, so intense that it still burns behind her eyelids when she rarely lets it.

Yet the memory seems to have attacked her tonight, of all nights.

Now, Emma Swan has never been type for the big bold wedding. Hell, she’d never been the marrying kind to begin with. Growing up with no family sort of does that to a person – instead of picturing her father walking her down the aisle, she used to imagine what it would be like to _have_ a father. Not to mention the enormous cost associated with the glorified party, getting all dolled up just to be presented to a man while wearing a white dress. An extremely expensive white dress, at that. And she’s not a virgin, thank you very much. Is white really appropriate?

No, she’s never been a wedding person, never professed to be any sort of expert on the whole thing. Centrepieces have never been her forte, nor have flowers or choosing menus for large amounts of people. But, despite this, despite the fact that her wedding expertise has mostly been her friends advising her what to do, she’s pretty certain she’s not supposed to be crying in the restroom at her bachelorette party.

And over what? A stupid, barely there kiss over a decade ago?

God, she should really lay off the tequila. In fact, as soon as she gets out of here, she’s going to march right up to Ruby and tell her so – No more tequila. _No more tequila._ “No more tequila.”

“Well, darling, I’m certainly not here to offer you any _more_ alcohol.”

 _Shit,_ “Did I say that out loud?” she groans, leaning her head against the wall of the cubicle. It’s nice and cool and she really should just stay here for the night. There’s no reason to brave it out there again. There’s a comfortable seat, a pillow, a cool wall. It doesn’t matter that it’s a toilet and toilet paper that she’s projecting into furniture items, it’s practically luxury.

“If it helps, it was said with quite vehement conviction.”

It hadn’t clicked before, who was standing outside the door, but the elegant vocabulary has definitely sorted out _that_ problem for her (only 98 to go then). Of _course_ it’s him. Why would the universe give her an easy way out?

And, no, it doesn’t help. Because even if she said it with complete confidence and had a petition with a thousand signatures all attesting to her _not_ drinking tequila again, Ruby would _still_ have the shot ready to go, with salt and a wedge of lemon balanced in the other hand. But hey, that’s Ruby and she wouldn’t change her for the world. Except maybe the part where she sent Killian Jones into the bathroom after her instead of coming in herself and…wait-

“What are you doing in here?”

There’s a moment of hesitation where all she can hear is the dull bass coming through the walls before his shoe scuffs along the floor and she can hear that he’s moved just a fraction closer to her, “Your friends were worried about you.”

Oh, right, because she started crying into her cocktail. Ignoring the fact that he’s seemingly separated himself from her friends and pulling her head off the wall, she grabs a handful of toilet paper, momentarily debating whether she should be destroying her pillow like this before dabbing the wad under her eyes. She cringes when she pulls the white paper away to find it smudged in black and can only hope that people mistake the look for more goth chic than distraught fiancé with cold feet.

Because that’s all it is. All it can be.

Just cold feet.

“No, but why _you_? It’s the ladies room. I was out there with every lady I know. Why send in the only male in the group?”

He’s really close to the door now, the shiny black of his shoes visible under the gap. “For starters, don’t lump me in with the party you didn’t invite me to, second, I work here, so I have access to the keys to make sure no one else comes in and bothers you. And, third, because right this second, you, Emma Swan, are in the men’s room.”

She’s about to protest his accusation that she didn’t invite him to her bachelorette party because it’s an all-female event and, whatever the state of their friendship, he’s still a male, but, “Fuck,” is about all she can manage to wrap her head around right now.

“Succinct, but an accurate summary, yes.”

With great effort, she lurches forwards on the closed lid of the toilet to fumble with the lock before the door finally swings open. And there he is, her gorgeous friend in all his topless waiter glory, chest hair on display, bow tie around his neck and hair lovingly ruffled by probably her own hand. Who knows at this moment in time? The point is, he’s hot and she is a tear stained mess who is probably closer to loving him than hating him despite, well, everything.

He’s holding out a bottle of water to her which she greedily grabs at, cracking the lid open and sucking down some healthy mouthfuls, barely breathing until she’s halfway through the bottle. He crouches down in front of her, hands on her bare knees, the white – yeah, she’s the bride-to-be who wears white to all her events. Sue her – material of her dress grazing just above the modest length. “Emma,” he says on an exhale.

“Killian…” she warns back, knowing this conversation is something that needs to happen but would like to wait until her head is no longer pounding with alcoholic buzz and music that vibrates against her very bones.

He sighs, lowering his head to rest against his hands. He can smell something on her skin like coconut and summer, something that has haunted the mess of his dreams for the past 12 years, probably even before that, when they were young and had so much life ahead of them. He just needs a moment to breathe, to collect his thoughts and put on the brave face again. Just needs one more second. One more…

He hears her sharp gasp as his lips just lightly touch the inside of her knee, but then he’s pulling back, because that’s the right thing to do, and standing to offer her his hand.

She takes it but he doesn’t miss the way her whole body trembles with the simple touch, just a feather light brush of fingers, all innocence and sin burning up in one. And it’s at that moment that he realises she probably feels the same way about him as he does her.

What a fucked up situation they’ve found themselves in.

“Another time, then?” she asks, already knowing the answer. They’ve pushed this down and packed it up that many times that they could practically make a career out of the process. Denial experts or something.

He nods, dropping her hand, knowing the exact same thing. They’re too good at hiding behind their walls. She’d once told him that keeping to himself would only work until it didn’t and he’d seen right through her supposed insight and into her own sad story. They’re too similar, she and him, too stubborn and too used to being alone. So he agrees with her again, because that’s what they’re good at. “As you wish.” Who is he to come between a woman and her betrothed anyway? It’s surely bad form.

…

_Four Months Earlier…_

“Make a wish!”

She lifts her head from the beautiful cake before her, all decorated in star shaped candles and chocolate, glaring lovingly at Mary Margaret across the table. It’s such a silly childish thing and she loves that her friend is one of those people who is just completely and utterly filled with hope, but what wish could a lost girl ever hope to come true. Emma Swan has had a good life for the upbringing that she wasn’t privy to.

Group homes made her cynical, foster parents nauseated her and people consistently let her down. It wasn’t until she was starting high school that she had been reunited with a friend from one of her group homes. August had been one of the lucky ones, his father coming to find him when they’d only been seven and taking him in. It turned out that Marco hadn’t known he had a son but, when August’s mother was diagnosed with cancer, she finally shared her secret enabling Marco to find his boy.

At 12 August had started asking questions about the other children he’d lived with and, eventually, Marco had helped to track Emma down at a local school. Her hair had been matted and dull, eyes red rimmed and wrists bruised. Marco had taken one look at her and told her she was coming home with them. And things had been good from then. She’s never taken her new life for granted and it’s honestly why she probably doesn’t have anything to wish for.

Still, when her eyes meet Mary Margaret’s and the other woman simply shrugs as if to ask what it can hurt to try, Emma finds herself scrambling for a quick _something_ to wish for.

She blows out the candles to a round of applause from her closest friends who have all gathered for her birthday and finds herself knowing exactly what to close her eyes and think of. It’s petty considering all she has now, but she’s learnt that sometimes being a little bit selfish is necessary.

Once everyone has a slice of the chocolate marble cake that her friend, Elsa, has put together for her, she takes a moment to lean against the wall and just absorb it all. There are so many people who she feels incredibly honoured to know all milling around the small flat she had started renting at the beginning of the year. The high windows give her a spectacular view out over the busy Boston streets and she lets herself relax for just a minute to appreciate her little bubble.

“So, what’d you wish for?” comes the voice of her oldest friend as he leans up against the same wall. She wonders if August looks out onto the city and feels the same sense of gratitude that she does that they’ve been lucky enough to escape the clutches of the streets.

She swallows her mouthful of cake and smiles without looking at him. “You know I can’t tell you or it won’t come true,” she says with a teasing lilt to her voice, knowing that he’s rolling his eyes at her without even being able to see him. There’s a small moment of comfortable silence between them, something they’ve grown accustomed to after years of knowing each other. It’s the moment born out of his patience to hear her out, even when it takes her longer than he may like to answer his questions. Eventually she meets his eyes in their reflection against the window, “I wished for what any orphan wishes for. To not be alone.”

He inclines his head towards her slowly, knowing that, despite the group who have gathered for her tonight, she’s speaking of a different kind of loneliness, “Well, maybe you don’t have to be.”

Turning slightly, she meets his gaze head on this time, unsure of his sincerity in that particular statement. “What do you mean?” Because surely it couldn’t be…

But he just smiles and confirms it, “You know what I mean.”

She breathes out a laugh, shaking her head incredulously as she lowers it, “August. That was a million years ago.”

He meets her incredulity with blatant logic and reason, “Emma, it was 12 years ago and we’re both still single and not looking for anything with anyone else. But neither of us wants to be alone.” His voice is quiet and she’s glad for that because she’s not sure she could handle any one of her friends hearing any of this right now. She’s not even sure _she_ can handle it. “Come on,” he continues, words just above a whisper now as he leans in close to her side, his breath smelling of chocolate, and warm against her cheek, “What do you say we honour our pact and get married.”

And there it is, out there in the open space between his lips and her ear. Out there for the world to know if they take the chance to just look this way right at this moment. But no one does, no one glances their way, no one calls out to tell her to run away and, below them, the city still rushes like it always has – people unaware of the enormous thing that has just occurred above their heads. But maybe it’s not enormous. Maybe it’s just life.

Biting her lip, she looks up at him, the blue in his eyes bright and alive and honest. So what if it’s not the conventional way? It’s their way and it’s just like they’re tucked away under the covers in their group home again, huddled together and hiding from everyone else. It’s just like they’ve always been and she could see it being the way they’ll always be.

“What?” she asks with a quirk of her lips, “Right now or can I finish my cake?”

“Whatever you want, dear,” he says back, just as teasingly.

…

If anyone thought it weird that he’d pressed a quick peck against her cheek, they didn’t mention it and the rest of the evening sort of went on the way it always would have, with a few glasses of wine and a long discussion on what people from high school are up to now.

Mary Margaret is the first to start yawning and hinting to her husband, David, that they should really be thinking about heading home. Ruby takes one look at the clock and declares that now is the time for one night stand potentials to start trickling into bars. “Emma, can I tempt you? Guys go nuts for the birthday girl thing.”

The blonde raises her eyebrows at her friend before her eyes flicker towards August for the briefest of seconds. When her line of sight settles once again on the brunette in the red mini-skirt, Ruby has a small grin on her painted lips. “Never mind,” she excuses, throwing her own look at August before beating Mary Margaret and David to the door, “I hunt better alone anyway.”

Emma goes to see her out, suspecting that Ruby leaving will also signal the end of the night for their friend Victor, the poor guy having had an incredibly enduring crush on the lone wolf for…well, however many years they’d known each other really.

She hugs Ruby at the door, expecting the, “We’ll discuss August tomorrow, yeah?” she gets whispered in her ear, before seeing her off.

As suspected, a minute after she bids farewell to David and Mary Margaret, Victor is also planting a kiss on her cheek and saying that they should catch up again soon.

When she makes her way back to the main area of the apartment, Elsa is packing up the remainder of the food left out on the tables and August is washing dishes in the kitchen. “Oh, you guys don’t have to do that,” she says, moving to pull a plate out of Elsa’s grip while simultaneously trying to grab August’s hand out of the dish water. But he stubbornly refuses, just scrubbing harder and faster. Emma shrugs her shoulders, opening the fridge to put her cake away, knowing it will be staple midnight snack food for the next week. “First of all, I have a dish washer,” she mentions casually.

At that, August pulls his hands out of the water, swinging around to check the rest of the kitchen for this mythical dish washer, “No you don’t.”

But Emma’s already swept in beside him to pull the plug out of the sink and let the water drain, laughing as he tries to move her away and continue the chore he’s taken upon himself to complete, “I’m just trying to help you. It’s your birthday,” he reasons, wet hands catching her upper arms to still her. All it results in is Emma trapped between the bench and her friend (fiancé?), their faces much closer together than she had anticipated. And this was a bad idea because all at once several things happen. She realises that being trapped like this can actually lead to something more with this man now because _they’re engaged_ , she also realises that it might take her a little time to get used to that idea because he’s _August_ and he’s her friend and now he’s _more_ and he looks like he doesn’t mind this whole situation with the hip pressing and the hand gripping and the closeness and… The third thing she becomes aware of is a flash of blonde hair as Elsa comes into sight, still standing off to the side of the room, serving platters clutched in her hands while her mouth hangs open.

And that’s what she needs to focus on, “Elsa, it’s not…”

But her friend is already composing herself, placing the crockery on the bench and smiling at Emma, “It’s fine. It’s not like it wasn’t bound to happen. I just thought it would be Ruby and Victor next in the group.”

August’s fingers loosen around Emma’s arms and she’s grateful that he makes it easy to step out of his embrace. Not sure why she feels so guilty at being caught by Elsa, she tries to make an excuse for the whole display, but her mouth just opens and closes a few times before she simply comes to stand in front of her friend.

Once again, Elsa reassures her, “It’s really fine. Just a shock was all.”

And Emma nods, because she’s feeling a little bit shocked by it all as well. “It’s new,” she eventually says, “You’re the first to know.”

She nods with understanding.

“I mean, Ruby probably has an inkling and I feel like she’s going to call a meeting over the whole thing. But…”

“Emma,” Elsa says, reassurance shining in the bright blue of her eyes, “It’s okay,” she reiterates, finality in her tone, and all Emma can do is nod.

“Okay.”

“I’m going to head off. Early flight tomorrow and all.”

And although Emma knows she’s telling the truth, Elsa being a travel photographer and all, she can’t help but feel something cold in her tone. “Of course,” she says, walking behind her to the door and helping her friend into her coat.

They hug, but it’s also stiff and not quite the way Emma is used to being hugged by Elsa. She waves with a smile as she walks down the hallway though and that, at least, gives her some kind of hope that things will be okay.

Turning and walking back into the apartment, she finds August once more at the kitchen sink. She leans her hip against the sideboard and watches him pull the last of the dishes out of the fresh water, smirking at the smug look on his face. It’s so weird to think that this could be a regular thing now; would they have dinner parties at their place? Would he insist on cleaning up?

“Are we really doing this?” she asks, her arms folded across her chest.

He pulls the plug out of the sink, quickly dries his hands and steps up in front of her, leaning in to hold her waist and press a kiss to her forehead. It’s so familiar that it could be just like any other time they’ve hung out, every other time he’s been there to comfort her as a friend. “Only if you want to.”

August has consistently shown up and been there for her. He left, but he came back and there are not a lot of people she can say that about in her life. They’ve been through high school and college together, through the painstaking hunt for jobs in their chosen careers, struggled to make ends meet and do it on their own terms. She bought out the news stand near her place when his first article was published in the Boston Globe; he’s dropped coffee at her place when she’s been working intelligence analysis on rough cases – the ones that remind her of their childhood – as an excuse to just make sure she’s okay. He’s good to her and he _knows_ her – the fact that he’s not too bad on the eyes doesn’t hurt either – if that’s all they’ve got, well, it’s better than a lot of couples have.

“I do,” she says, embracing the courageous side of herself and leaning up to brush her lips against his gently. He hesitates a moment before reciprocating, his hands gripping a little firmer on her hips.

She pulls away first and he must see the quiet fear in her eyes because he knows to give her space, his hands coming to rest at his sides. “I’ll see you soon, okay? We’ll work this all out,” he says with reassurance.

Licking her lips, she nods at him and unfolds her arms, “Of course.”

…

She’s trying to remember how all her serving plates fit in this tiny cupboard when she hears a knock at her door. It’s coming up close to midnight, but she knows exactly who it will be. The poor guy always gets the late shift at his work. “It’s open,” she calls out, hoping he can hear her over the sound of clinking porcelain, the damn small plate not fitting anywhere in the configuration she’s somehow managed to make.

She feels his eyes burning in the back of her for a good 12 seconds before he moves forward, crouching next to her and lifting the plate from her hands, “Here, love. Let me.”

The protest dies on her tongue as Killian gently finds the perfect spot so that everything fits almost immediately. “Really?” she exclaims, slightly pissed off that it took him less than a minute to make everything alright again.

For his part, he shrugs and says, “Needed to make up for being moderately late to your birthday.”

They stand and she leans into the hug he offers her in greeting. “And for the fact that you’re going to make me semi-unpack the fridge just to get you some food,” she predicts. Killian has always been that friend who unashamedly accepts a free meal when it’s passed his way. Not that most people wouldn’t be grateful, but he’s the one who definitely needs it the most frequently. “How was work?” she adds, as she starts pulling out a few different dishes. She grabs the cake too because it’ll be midnight by the time he eats a little and she _did_ say the dessert would be her midnight snack food.

He shrugs, chewing on a small piece of bread he’s picked up from one of the containers, “You know how it is, love. Boring from start to finish.”

She tilts her head at him, trying to keep the pity out of her tone because she knows he doesn’t appreciate it, “You really need to get out of there.”

His smile is one of someone who has basically accepted his fate and she wonders, as she often does, what happened to the guy who used to fight for what he wanted, the one who used to fill her with hope and inspiration when she didn’t think she’d get through college, let alone life. The one who sat beside her through criminal justice class after class and helped her study because he was _always_ quicker than her at picking it all up. What happened?

“It pays the bills and that’s all I need right now,” he says, practiced and untrue. She sees straight through him, but doesn’t say anything else on the matter. It _is_ still her birthday after all and she doesn’t want to be having conversations that will lead to arguments with one of her oldest friends.

So instead, she concedes. “As long as you’re happy,” she says, averting her gaze and focusing her attention on cutting them both some cake instead of watching him assure her that he is when he isn’t.

“Did you have a nice evening?” he asks, as they situate themselves on the couch with their dessert, the TV playing some late night infomercial. She reaches for the remote, flicking it off, more than happy to spend time with her friend with no distractions.

Smiling at the memories of having everyone together, she nods, “Yeah, it was pretty great having the old group around. We missed you though.” She can tell he’s about to apologise, but she holds up a hand, “Hey, we’ve been through this before. You’re here now, that’s what matters.”

He shrugs and pops another bite of cake in his mouth. “Still,” he says, not really offering an explanation past that. But Emma knows what he means. It is hard, when they all work regular daylight hours now, to include the one friend who is still working nights at the job he got while they were in college. And topless bartender may have been a fun gimmick at 21 but, at 30, it’s starting to weigh on all their minds that their friend might be stuck in a permanent rut.

They eat in silence for a few moments before Killian shifts suddenly, pulling something from the pocket of his jeans. “I brought you something,” he says, smiling and holding out a small box.

She frowns, because it looks like jewellery and he certainly cannot afford jewellery, “Killian, you really didn’t have to.”

He just purses his lips and pushes the gift into her hand, “I didn’t pay for it, okay.”

That just opens a whole other line of questions, but she sets down her cake anyway and accepts the box. It’s small and black and strangely familiar, the corners of its velvety texture rubbed away with time. Before she even opens it the whole way, it clicks into place exactly where she knows it from and what it is, and she almost slams the lid straight back down.

“Killian, I can’t-” she begins.

But he’s already got a hand over hers, helping her to keep it open, “You can and you will. He would have wanted you to have it and you use it far more than I ever have.”

She looks down at the compass in the box, its little needle pointing due north, right at Killian. “He was your brother,” she says in weak protest, her mind having already accepted the gift, but her morality waging war with that choice.

His hand squeezes hers gently, “And he was your friend.”

Their little group had been forever changed that day Liam had passed away. He may have been older than them, but that certainly didn’t change the way they’d all felt his death acutely. It was like a cold silence descended on all of them and, when there was finally sound again, everything was different.

“You can bring it the next time we go out on the boat,” Killian insists.

She remembers the first time they’d been out without Liam there, the elder of the Jones boys leaving the vessel to his younger brother. Killian had sworn he knew what he was doing, but Emma had worried the whole time because Liam had always been the one to navigate them. In a fit of frustration, Killian had thrown the compass her way and told her that, if she didn’t bloody well trust him, perhaps she’d trust that.

She’d felt awful after that, because she _did_ trust Killian; somehow, strangely, always had, but she watched the compass anyway, following the path that her friend had set out for them. And it calmed her, like knowing Liam was still guiding them. It was a habit now, every time they boarded Killian’s little boat to take a trip out of the harbour, she’d pick up the compass from the shelf and hold onto it.

Killian leans in to lay a gentle kiss at her hairline, “I love that you want to keep him alive as much as I do.”

She smiles, finally accepting the gift, “Of course. He meant a lot to all of us.”

Something flickers in Killian’s eyes then, like something he wants to say but can’t quite get out. He blinks and it disappears though, replaced by soft crinkles around his eyes as he smiles in return. “I should, ah, let you get to bed. Need your beauty sleep in your old age now,” he says cheekily, the heaviness of the moment having passed them by.

She shoves him away playfully, setting everything down so that she can follow him to the door to see him out, “You’d know, grandpa.”

He wraps her in another hug, tighter this time, like something is slightly off kilter in their little world, but she doesn’t say anything, just hugs him back just as hard.

“Happy birthday, Emma,” he whispers in her ear.

She presses her face into his neck, unable to vocalise how much it means that he’s come here so late and that he’s given her something so beautifully meaningful, hoping that the gesture will be understood. He kisses her forehead again, leaning back with his arms still around her. And she can see that little flicker in his eyes again, the quiet desire to tell her _something_. Something that she just can’t seem to put her finger on.

She must have the same look on her own face because he beats her to the question, asking, “What?” before she can.

It’s on the tip of her tongue to tell him about August, that she’s now engaged, that she’s going to have a _husband_ and be an adult and live in a house with someone else. But it sounds insane in her mind, so, for reasons she can’t even explain to herself, she just shakes her head, “Just tired I guess.”

Disappointment dances across his face, but it’s only for a second, before he composes himself and nods, “Aye. I would think so. You’d best get some sleep.”

She smiles one last time at him as he departs, waving when he turns around halfway down the hall. As she closes the door, she breathes heavily and leans upon it, trying to not let her mind wander to the very bizarre events of the night. Seeing the plates still sitting on her coffee table, she methodically picks them up, cleans and dries them, before packing them away. She wipes down her benches and tidies the last of the stray wine glasses and used napkins.

But the undercurrent is always there, threatening to overtake her every thought. She’s trying not to analyse exactly _why_ she didn’t want Killian to know about August when she finally crawls into bed and, as she switches off the lamp beside her, she tries not to think of all the things that are going to change now that she and her friend are going to get married.

And it’s not that she’d ever regret her wish, not that she’d ever want to be alone, but she’s just so full of emotion right now that she doesn’t know how she could possibly deal with having another person around her in this moment.

…


	2. You Know This Don't Feel Right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh you gorgeous cupcakes! Thank you so much for your wonderful reviews and feedback. It’s always a nerve-racking experience to put up a new fic, but you all make it worthwhile.

It turns out that October is a busy time of the year for everyone, what with those subtle undertones of Christmas trying to push into everyone’s minds on top of Halloween, the costumed holiday already making it a particularly crazy time of year. Emma doesn’t know whether to be thankful or regretful that it’s taken her a whole week since her birthday to be able to catch up with her friends. Thankful because it’s given her a chance to breathe and work her way through the situation in her mind – she’s also had an ongoing text conversation with August which has eased her slight panic over suddenly being engaged - regretful because she could have gotten _this_ particular enquiry over and done with sooner.

“What do you _mean_ you’re engaged?” Ruby exclaims, bursting through the door of the apartment, arms laden with all the makings of a costume designed to cover as little of her body as possible – not that Emma can blame her; if you’ve got it, flaunt it – already halfway through her rant about how she thought Emma and August were just fucking.

Emma guides her down the hall to her bedroom where Elsa and Mary Margaret are already sipping on champagne and trying to figure out if they should get changed before they get too tipsy to remember which way their costumes go on.

Ruby disrupts any conversation that might be going on with a heavy sigh. Dumping her stuff on a chair by Emma’s bed, she turns to the other ladies and asks them, “Did you know Emma and August are _engaged_? Like, fuck, what happened to our lives?”

Mary Margaret giggles slightly at Ruby’s outburst and Emma worries about the amount of champagne she’s already had. If she’s getting the giggles, she probably _definitely_ needs to get her costume on.

But before she can do anything about that whole situation, her eyes catch Elsa’s across the room. It’s just for the briefest of seconds, but it’s that same look that had passed over her face just the week before. Something akin to hurt, but not quite. Her friend has been on the move since the Sunday before, travelling to Berlin and then London to get photos for two articles that need to be completed before the end of next week, so perhaps it’s just that she’s tired that has her looking so…glum. No, not that either. But something like it.

Now that Ruby’s dropped her things and has hands free, she’s already fumbling for Emma’s, “So, where’s the ring?”

The others all crowd around her until she feels very backed into a corner, “There is no ring.” At the looks of disappointment that cross her friends’ faces, she continues, “It’s not… I mean, we’re still figuring it out. This isn’t exactly conventional.”

“You’re telling me!” Ruby exclaims, “I got a text from Victor about it. Least you could have done was tell me yourself.”

Emma pushes past the others to give herself some breathing room. “That’s why I invited you all over,” she says, raising her hands in defence, “Yes, August and I are engaged. No we don’t have a ring, nor have we been sneaking around behind your backs.” She throws a pointed look at Elsa, feeling, for some reason, as though she needs to stress that point to her in particular. “It’s all kind of sudden. But we want to do it right. So we’re doing the wedding thing, with the white dress and the flowers and the bridesmaids.”

Mary Margaret is practically bouncing on her toes by this point, seeing where this little informal meeting of sorts is going. And Emma’s grateful for that, glad that at least one person seems excited because it’s hard to get all this out when one friend is staring daggers at her for not telling her straight away and the other is still looking at her with unsure eyes.

Licking her lips, she rephrases, “That means you guys. _You_ will be my bridesmaids. I mean… if you want.”

And it’s like something just clicks into place and it’s suddenly all okay. Smiles spread across the faces of her three best friends and she is engulfed in a crowd of hugs and kisses and, “yes, of course!” And maybe this whole wedding thing won’t be so bad.

…

They’re all decidedly tipsy by the time they meet up with the guys at the bar Killian works at. David, Victor and August are all wearing varying expressions of exasperation at having to endure yet _another_ night at the bar designed mostly for people who are _interested_ in men, but Killian’s on shift and they didn’t want to leave him alone for Halloween. Besides, he’ll be finished by eleven and they can move onto a different bar then.

There’s a moment for brief appraisal of all the costumes, before David and Mary Margaret, dressed in a ridiculously sweet couples’ costume of Snow White and Prince Charming, sneak off to grab a drink and probably go make out for the next few hours. They’ve been apart for a solid afternoon, so it’s only customary for them to make up for lost time.

Ruby’s already at the bar, trying to get the attention of Killian who just so happens to be about the only person _not_ looking at her. Her friend had explained her costume as, “The Big Bad Wolf, Emma. Duh,” but the only remotely wolfish thing about it are the ears that are perched on her head. Other than that, there’s a corset and a mini skirt with lace topped stockings held on by garters at the tops of her thighs. Although, Emma has to admit, she does look ready to hunt. So maybe it’s more wolf-like than she first thought.

Elsa grabs Emma’s arm and points over to where August and Victor are saving a table for them, “What’s the bet that tonight’s the night for Victor and Ruby?”

Emma tries not to act too surprised at Elsa’s change in demeanour, but she is definitely glad that she seems to have her friend back on her side after the strange coldness she’d experienced over the last week. Following her line of sight, she sees what Elsa sees immediately. Victor, who has a sleek Frankenstein thing going on, seems to be deep in conversation with August, but his eyes keep constantly flicking to Ruby, his fist clenching on the table and his jaw ticking every time someone other than Killian tries to get her attention.

Emma nods in agreement with her friend; it wouldn’t be the first time they’d bet on this, “Ruby doesn’t seem to be biting with anyone else either. You might be onto something here.”

For reasons she’s definitely not going to read into, it strikes her that, if Ruby and Victor decide to get their act together, the only single people in their group will be Elsa and Killian, and that fills her with a strange sense of dread that she can’t, and probably doesn’t want to, explain. Elsa seems to be on the same wavelength though, “Maybe I should try to get in with Killian, just to round out the group,” she says teasingly. Emma knows she’s only joking, knows that there’s nothing between the two of them, but then there was nothing between she and August until a week ago either. So what the hell is this feeling and where has it come from?

Before she can get too caught up in her thoughts and say something to Elsa that she’d possibly regret, Ruby returns with a tray of a whole other type of regret; tequila shots, along with a paint pen.

Emma looks curiously at the offering, focusing on the pen, “What’s that for?”

Ruby just grins and guides them over to the table with Victor and August. They divide up the shots, making sure everyone has a lemon wedge and some salt before Ruby reveals what the bright blue paint is for.

“So, apparently, the gimmick of the evening is that we get to draw on the bar staff. They can’t exactly wear costumes, so they’re handing over the reins to the customers to tattoo them up.” Her eyes are alight with mischief as she delivers the news that they’ll be drawing on Killian at some point this evening before she shouts, “Cheers,” over the pumping music and tips her shot into her mouth. They all follow suit, before deciding they need to hit the dancefloor.

“You guys go ahead, I just want to speak to August for a second,” Emma says, shoving Elsa and Ruby lightly as they throw her knowing looks, nodding as Victor follows along.

August has probably done the least amount possible for a costume, well, about the same as Elsa really (“I already have the same name as that girl from Frozen…I’ll just throw on a blue dress and braid my hair. Easy.”) He’s wearing a pair of dark jeans and a non-descript plaid button down. “Let me guess, you came as yourself?” she asks, moving around the table until she’s actually next to him.

He grins down at her, “I’m Pinocchio after he gets turned into a real boy.”

She can tell he feels like the smartest person alive for coming up with that. “You really went all out,” she says, sarcasm dripping from her voice.

“What about you?” he asks, hands coming to rest on her hips. She’s still getting used to this whole casual intimacy thing, but she leans into him. “What did you come as tonight?”

She’s dressed head to toe in tight leather and she knows she looks hot, which is probably why she feels like she can flirt a little, be a little bit sexy and devious. Standing on her toes, she presses her cheek against his and whispers in his ear, “I’m me, if darkness swallowed me whole.”

She feels his grip tighten on her waist and maybe it’s a bit too much because she is still getting used to _being_ with him, so she leans back and smiles, reaching into a pocket and pulling out a strip of fabric which is her mask. Speaking in her regular friendly tone of voice, she explains, “I’m Black Canary. You know, from _Arrow_?”

He nods, the friend she’s always had coming back to her in the motion. Yeah, definitely not ready for his hands all over her yet. Good to know.

“So,” she starts again, tucking the mask back in her pocket and stepping out of his hold to give herself some breathing space, “Have you told the guys yet?”

He nods, accepting her change of subject. “David and Victor, yes,” throwing a look over his shoulder to see if the bar is any less busy, he continues, “I haven’t been able to get to Killian yet though.”

She shouldn’t feel relieved by that, should she? So, then, why does she?

“It’s okay,” she says, “We’ll get to him some time later.”

“Yeah,” August agrees, turning his full attention back to Emma. “We should go join the others on the dancefloor. I need as much practice as I can get before the big day.”

It takes her a moment to realise that the “big day” he’s speaking of is their wedding day and, when she does, she finds herself in need of another drink. “You know what? You go save me a spot out there, I’m just going to make sure Killian’s okay behind that bar.”

August nods, giving her a quick peck on the lips before joining the mass of moving bodies all swaying to the beat of some 90’s classic being belted out by the cover band in the corner. Again with the casual touches and kisses. She’s not naïve, she knows that this is what marriage will be like, she just wishes that she’d accounted for how easy it might be for August compared to how difficult it is for her to just, sort of, phase into it.

In a stroke of genius, she picks up the paint pen from the table and makes her way to the bar. Killian has always been able to calm her down; she’s hoping that if she can get him alone for a few minutes under the guise of drawing on him, then at least she can face her fiancé – _fiancé!!! –_ without having a minor heart attack every step of the way.

He’s the only one left of their friends who doesn’t know about the engagement so she feels like she can just be herself around him with no worries or concerns; no reasons to come up with, no explanations to give.

When August had come back into her life, she’d opened the doors in her finely built façade a little, pulled down the walls enough to peek over the top. Marco had taken her in without a second thought and, for a girl who had always been treated as second rate, that was a huge deal. August had walked with her to school every day, had sat with her at lunch and walked home with her too. But they were rarely in a class together. It was definitely she and Killian who had the similar interests in that respect, even all the way through to taking the same course in college. Yes, August had gained her trust, but it was Killian who helped her see that perhaps she’d just encountered all the wrong kinds of people through her life, up until this point. That maybe there were a few good ones left out there.

The others had come along in a similar fashion, slotting into her life like they’d always been there. David treating her like a little sister, Mary Margaret confiding in her when she’d wanted to take the next step with her boyfriend, Ruby and Elsa were like fire and ice, the pair joining their group during their years at college. And Victor…well Victor had always been all about Ruby. Not that he hadn’t had his fun too – the girls Emma had seen leave his dorm room over the four years they’d studied together definitely spoke for themselves – but he always came back to Ruby the same way she always came back to him. Not that either of them seemed to be able to admit it.

It was a perfectly mismatched little group, a family of sorts, of misfits, of people who thought that everybody had left them behind.

But Killian had always been the one who knew just what to say and she just needs that right now. Even if he doesn’t know the reason why.

Pushing her way through the dense crowd and stepping up on the footrest of the wooden bar front, she leans over and reaches past the beer taps to grab Killian’s bare shoulder, pulling him away from whatever cocktail he’s making for the girl giving him mooneyes a few people down from her. His eyes, for that matter, light up upon seeing her and she notices a disappointed look flicker across Miss Mooneyes’ face. It shouldn’t fill her with a sense of pride that she’s the one who gets Killian’s attention, but it does.

“I’ll be right with you, love,” he calls out, winking as he finishes off the drink with a pink umbrella, handing it to the girl to her left and accepting her payment. Ignoring the next person in line, he turns back to Emma and she may be imagining things, but she feels like he’s definitely flexing a little harder than he had been a minute ago. Show off.

“Another round of tequila?” he asks, already pulling the shot glasses out.

But Emma grabs his hand and stops him, “Actually, I was wondering if it might be break time for you?”

He smiles a thankful smile, as though he’s been waiting for a break all night, but then, she knows how much he detests having to do this job, so it’s most likely that he _has_.

“Hey Robin,” he calls out to his boss, also topless, also sticking a pink umbrella in a drink, also looking in desperate need of a break, “I’m taking 10.”

If Robin was going to protest, it was going to fall on deaf ears because Killian is already pushing his way down the bar to the door at the end.

Emma meets him there, swinging her way through the open door and into the back of the bar.

She’d worked in her fair share of bars herself during her college years. There’s an art to it, really; being able to charm people enough in thirty seconds to encourage them to give you a decent tip. And she’d played the game well enough to keep on top of things and have a little extra cash. This bar, though, is a whole other ball game and she forgets it every time, until she steps behind the doors and is reminded of how Killian’s job is more a show and dance than hers ever was.

There are mirrors lining the walls, lights beaming down on them from all angles, highlighting the toned figure of her friend. And, yes, he is _definitely_ flexing more now. Even without the hordes of women to impress. Off to the side, there’s a small table with an assortment of oils for the braver souls who want to really shine out there in the bar. But Killian’s always played to his strengths and his chest hair is definitely his main strength. No oil needed to highlight that asset.

She wonders if it’s bad form, as he would say, to be having these thoughts over a friend. But she figures it’s harmless and he _is_ a good looking man so why not admire his physique?

“See something you like, Swan?”

Ugh, that’s why. Because, when he catches you, the raging blush that turns your skin to flames is hard to hide and, yes, okay? She had been admiring him a little too intensely. Must be the tequila.

He chuckles at the alarm that must be showing on her face, then nods in the direction of another door to the right of the mirrors, “Come on.”

The good thing about Killian is that he knows when he’s pushed something too far, knows when to reel back and give her a moment to compose herself. So he makes sure to turn his back to her as they step through the door and into the, well, she’d call it a dressing room, but it’s more where the guys undress.

Killian goes straight for a shirt, but Emma finally finds her voice again and reaches out to stop him, “Wait.” His eyebrows shoot up and she fights the blush at his assumption. This is supposed to make her feel better, not like she’s going crazy. _This is Killian,_ she reminds herself, _your friend Killian._ “Can’t draw on you if you’re clothed.”

“Ah yes,” he says, disdain in his tone, “ _that._ ”

Oh, so he’s not all for this? Emma smirks, finally feeling like she’s got the upper hand. “Yes, this,” she says, stalking towards him, uncapping the pen and biting her lip in concentration as she tries to choose which piece of skin will be her canvas.

He slowly turns as she approaches him, “If you’ve got to, go for the back at least. No telling what kind of havoc that paint will wreak on my chest.”

She supposes he has a point. It kind of works out better for her anyway because she can draw whatever she wants back here and he won’t have a clue what is gracing his body.

Tapping the pen against her bottom lip in contemplation, she tilts her head to the side and begins to draw.

He shivers slightly and she assumes the pen is cool on his skin, so she whispers a quick, “Sorry,” before continuing the line. The thing is, that one whispered word comes out much huskier than she intended and she’s suddenly very aware of how close she is to her friend. She wonders if he can feel her breath glancing across his shoulder as she finishes the basic outline.

She has to swallow her breath, determined not to let a small gasp escape her as he adjusts his posture, his muscles rolling under his skin; she is suddenly _immensely_ aware of how quiet it is back here. The music doesn’t filter through the walls this far back and the doors seem to have drowned out any chatter from the bar too.

“What are you drawing?” he asks, his voice just as breathless as hers.

What the hell has she gotten herself into and why is this doing the exact opposite of calming her down?

Putting the finishing touches on her little masterpiece, she recaps the pen, pulls out her phone and snaps a picture, turning the screen around for Killian to see.

He chuckles at the mark, a familiar skull and crossbones, “Well, I suppose I _could_ be a pirate.”

Emma shrugs, slipping her phone back in her pocket, “You do own a boat.”

“Mmm,” he agrees, “And I do quite enjoy searching for treasure.” His eyes roam over her leather clad form appraisingly and she understands immediately what he is implying.

They’ve toed this line before, this flirtatious one between friends and more. But one of them always pulls away just as the danger levels heighten. The risk is too great, their friendship means too much. And, for Emma, sometimes Killian reminds her of all she’s worked so hard to leave behind. She works in a job that she studied for, pays her rent on time and always has enough to enjoy time out with her friends. Killian is definitely the opposite of that and she wonders when their lives split off so dramatically.

He’s facing her now, close enough to touch, heat rolling off him in waves. She knows where this will go if she lets it, she’s always known and, maybe, once upon a time, she might have allowed it to. But August flashes through her mind and she knows she can’t. Certainly not now.

“Killian,” she says quietly, her hand coming up to press against his chest. And that is probably her biggest mistake because now she can _feel_ his warmth, feel the pounding of his heart in time with hers. It’s terrifying. And he’s still _so close_.

“Emma,” he says back to her, eyes closing as he gathers his thoughts, “I…”

“Don’t,” she hushes, “Just don’t.”

“It’s okay,” he urges and it hits her that he doesn’t know. He still thinks that she’s single and available and, after all these years, maybe something can happen.

So she does the only thing she can think of and pushes him back a little harder, blurting, “I’m with August. We’re engaged,” in a rush and feeling an overwhelming wave of anxiety hit her as she watches the intensity on his face change from desire to confusion.

“What?” he asks, stepping back, her hand falling from his chest, the spell broken.

And she knows there will be a dozen things to go over in her mind later, to analyse and digest, but right now, in this moment, all she can think about is how much she wishes she could go back and change the way she’d just said that.

“It’s only new,” she rushes to add, to justify, to make things better.

He’s still trying to process it, she can see it in his eyes. And then, like a switch flicks, everything is clear and calm again. He meets her gaze and nods his head, “I suppose a congratulations is in order.”

But his voice is off and there’s something not quite right about the set of his jaw. It reminds her of when Elsa had found out about them, that same not-quite-lost-but-something-close-to-it look in his eyes.

“Thank you,” she offers softly, not sure what else to say.

“I uh,” he looks over his shoulder, “I should get back out there. Need to cover Robin for a break.”

She nods, “Yeah, I should…”

“Get back to your fiancé,” he finishes and is that _anger_ in his voice?

The comfortably buzzed feeling of a few minutes ago has completely evaporated, leaving her feeling cold and at a loss of what to say or do. But she feels like she should explain, “He was going to tell you tonight. August was going to tell you.”

Killian just smiles tightly, already turning away from her to head back out into the bar. “I’m glad I heard it from you,” he says, though she can barely hear him; his voice is so small.

…

August is standing by the door as they exit and Killian claps him on the shoulder as he passes, wishing him a congratulations as well before he continues onto the bar without a backwards glance.

“Sorry,” Emma says, as August catches her around the waist, “I know you wanted to be the one to tell him, but it kind of just slipped out.”

He smiles, “It’s fine. Probably best that he hear it from you anyway, what with your history.”

Emma frowns, “History?”

He rests a hand on her lower back as he guides her towards the dance floor, “Yeah, you know? That time you guys kissed on Liam’s boat?”

_Oh_ , so people knew about that. That’s a development. “I wouldn’t exactly call a moment over a decade ago history.”

August shrugs, “Still, it’s great that everyone knows now. I suppose we can start planning.”

“Yeah,” she agrees offhandedly, still thinking about how everyone knows about their kiss too and wondering why this is the first she’s hearing of it. She wonders if Killian thinks about it too and glances towards the bar to see the man in question talking to Miss Mooneyes from before.

No, why would he think about it? He seems to have everything he could want right over there. A fun job with gorgeous women fawning over him. What would he need with a long lost memory of a stolen moment?

She leans into August’s arms, feeling them close around her waist as she rests her chin on his shoulder. It’s a slow enough song that they don’t look out of place swaying to the music, back and forth. Emma doesn’t mean to, but she keeps an eye on the bar. But when she sees Mooneyes lean over the beer taps, paint pen in hand, to draw a heart over Killian’s heart – did he give her the same warning about his chest hair? Did she just completely ignore it? – she has to look away.

“Hey,” August asks, pulling back enough that he can meet Emma’s gaze, a finger under her chin tilting her head up, “You okay?”

She nods, leaning in to press a chaste peck against his lips. To her left she hears Ruby practically squeal at the innocent contact and then buries her head in August’s chest as her friends suddenly appear around them, cheering at their friends’ happiness.

And she understands why, gets that there is typically excitement surrounding an engagement. But, even with all the jubilation, all she can think about is how the little spike in her heartbeat whenever she kisses August is not even close to what she feels when she just stands a little too close to Killian.

And that just makes her feel awful.


	3. Hopeless Dreamers Hopeless Types

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for your feedback. I know some of you are very confused as to how Emma can choose August over Killian - I promise you that these questions will be answered. Just stick with me here ;) Thank you again to @oubliette14 for reading through and for @lifeinahole27 for putting up with me sending small paragraphs her way until I got it right (I hope!)

“So, have you thought about it?”

_Dammit_ , she thinks, glancing at the clock – 11pm; she could have left at any point and gotten away with it for another day. But no, she  _had_ to insist on watching The Lion King  _and_ its sequel. It’s just that damn ‘He Lives in You’ song; she can’t get enough of it.

But now she has to face the question she’s been running from for the past three weeks.

The truth is, she’s done nothing _but_ think about it. As for a decision, though, that’s a whole other thing.

So, in answer, she simply groans and hides behind a couch cushion, hoping August will take pity on her and just change the subject.

He doesn’t.

“Emma,” he tries again, leaning over the space between them to pull the pillow away from her face, “We’ve got to talk about it at least.”

She screws up her face at him in response. Because, yes, she’d said she’ll marry him, but picking an actual date and getting on with it just makes it real. She still doesn’t have a ring on her finger, they haven’t had an engagement party – in fact, apart from announcing it to their friends, they haven’t really told anybody else. Not that they have a lot of people  _to_ tell, but Marco. Telling Marco would be a good start – they don’t live together… Apart from the fact that they’ve agreed to wed, they haven’t really done many wedding-y things.

“Fine,” she sighs, sitting up in her corner of the couch and facing her fiancé.

There’s a slight smirk on his face and she only resists throwing a cushion at him because he’s the one currently holding it. But she knows this is exciting for him, that it’s something he’s probably thought about a whole lot more than she has.

Despite the rough start to his life, August always had a little more trust in everything working out one day. Even as a kid, he would speak about the adventures he’d go on, the people he’d meet, the person he’d marry. He would spin the most fantastical tales and make Emma almost believe that it was possible to get out and live a normal life after having such an abnormal upbringing. Curled up beneath the same comforter, he’d whisper his hopes and dreams to her and they’d hold hands through the night until they were yelled at in the mornings for sharing a bed again.

And then August  _had_  gotten out. And Emma hadn’t allowed herself to entertain the fantasies anymore. Even when Marco had spoken her name and August had been there again for her – she’d grown bitter and realistic enough to know better.

So, now, even with her fiancé sitting right next to her, it just doesn’t feel real.

“So?” he prompts and she realises that he actually wants her opinion on this.

“Right,” she says, biting her lip. “I’m not crazy about summer weddings,” she eventually supplies, looking pointedly at August because she really thinks he should take the lead on this decision.

He smiles, “I’m not too keen on wearing a suit in the heat either.”

“Okay, so not summer. And not spring either. Hay fever is a bitch.”

He chuckles at that but nods along with her logic, “And seeing as it’s fall now and I can’t imagine you wanting to do this next week…”

“Or drawing it out until this time next year,” she finishes before August can even put that idea out there. It’s a stupid little thing, but giving herself _too_ much time to back out of this whole thing is probably going to result in a runaway bride situation.

He seems to understand that without asking. “So winter wedding?”

She nods slowly, “Winter wedding.”

“Not December.”

She agrees, thinking of how busy it is at Christmas as it is, “Definitely not.”

“February?”

She swallows, “Before Valentine’s Day?”

And he smiles because they have a rough idea of when this is all going to happen and it didn’t involve pulling any teeth.

Emma grabs her phone from the coffee table, opening up her calendar app, “The 11th is a Saturday,” she says, chewing on a thumbnail and glancing up at August.

And he’s grinning right back at her, “The 11th of February. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

She nods. His excitement must be contagious because she can actually feel it bubbling up in her. They’re really doing this. And she suddenly feels incredibly lucky. Because it may not be conventional, it may not be what people dream of as children, but she gets to marry her best friend and the idea that she’ll be happy in her life with him by her side makes her feel kind of giddy. The girl who couldn’t bear to think of marriage is getting something so  _normal_ and it’s pretty damn wonderful.

He rocks forward on the couch, leaning in towards her, plucking her phone from her hands and bracing his arms on either side of her thighs. “Is this okay?” he asks quietly and she finds her breath hitching as she nods. She’s still getting used to this whole kissing her friend thing but, this time, when he brushes his lips against hers, she responds immediately. It’s like something has changed, something important. Because it’s real now and, instead of scaring her as much as she thought it would, she feels like she’s finally getting her life in order. And she likes that she can share that with someone she loves.

August never pushes her and she’s incredibly grateful for that usually, but tonight she kind of wants _more_. Wants to pretend that this _is_ normal and that they’re getting married because it’s what was written in the stars. Still, a small wave of relief rolls over her as he pulls away – which probably says a lot about how _not normal_ this all is – leaving a parting line of light kisses on her jaw and down her neck. “We’re really doing this,” he whispers into her skin, damp and hot against the lobe of her ear.

She nods and it’s crazy, but, “Yeah, we are.”

…

If she thought October was busy, it had nothing on November and, by the time Thanksgiving time rolls around, Emma is well and truly convinced that maybe waiting that whole year until next fall wouldn’t have been the worst idea in the world.

Standing in front of a full-length mirror, wearing a pristine white dress, makes her want to push this whole thing back as far as possible. The lady fitting her, Belle, finishes clipping the back of the dress and tells her to turn around. It’s modest, really; lace covering a sweetheart neckline and reaching down her arms – if she’s getting married in winter, she thinks it might be smart to have some sort of sleeve on the dress. The bodice is slimming, but not confining and the skirt is simple and elegant.

Belle pulls at the train of the dress, making it flow out in an impossibly beautiful way that Emma has no doubt she will never be able to recreate. She wonders briefly what Belle is doing on the 11th of February before shaking her head. Just because she doesn’t have all that many people to invite to the wedding, doesn’t give her free reign to invite everyone in the city.

“Okay,” comes the timid voice of Belle from behind her, “Are you ready for the world to see?”

She’s convinced herself that this isn’t a big deal, that it’s just a dress, that her whole life won’t change because of a garment. But, despite that, she feels her heart speed up in an overwhelming way as she nods and Belle pulls back the curtains to allow Ruby, Mary-Margaret and Elsa to bear witness to her nerves and this dress.

“Oh,” is the first sound out of any of them. Mary Margaret’s hand goes immediately to her mouth, her eyes tearing up and she steps forward.

It’s not supposed to be emotional, it’s not supposed to feel like this. She watches her friend with curious eyes, twirling the new shiny ring on her finger, wondering if this is a good reaction or one of horror.

But then Mary Margaret finds her voice again and it’s a babble of excitement and, “You look  _so_  beautiful, Emma.”

The other two pick up on that, eyes roaming all over Emma’s white lace covered form, “This is perfect.”

“I can’t believe this is the only dress you’ve tried on.”

Belle pipes up at that, “Your friends are right; I’ve never seen a bride pick out her dress first time round.”

She has to smile at that. Her determination has definitely suited that aspect of wedding planning. Emma has always been someone who knows what she wants. It may take her decent amounts of time to obtain those things, but she never goes in without a plan. And her plan has completely panned out in this case.

Biting her lip, she takes a quick look at her reflection, pulling her long blonde hair over her shoulder and admiring the open diamond back of the dress. Meeting Ruby’s eyes through the mirror, she asks, “Do you think August will like it?”

For all she says and believes that dressing up for a man will only bring you grief and a whole host of body image issues, she kind of wants this one thing to be a little bit for August too.

Ruby nods with a smirk, “Yeah. He’ll love it.” And it wouldn’t be Ruby without her adding, “And he’ll love getting you out of it too.”

Mary Margaret, still teary, slaps a hand down on Ruby’s arm in admonishment, shaking her head, “Emma. He will love it. But, more importantly, you’ve got our ticks of approval.”

Elsa nods along with the other two and Emma turns back to her own reflection, “Okay, let’s do it.”

Belle claps her hands together happily and starts talking about alterations and when she can do additional fittings. Emma nods along as she pulls the curtain back around her and slips out of the dress, handing it to the other woman as she leaves her to redress. And then it’s quiet in the dressing room, gentle music from the storefront filtering back into the private room and the gentle chatter of her friends who are sipping champagne just outside the curtain just a quiet background hum to the rushing of blood in her ears.

She stands still, staring at herself in the mirrors that line the walls, in nothing but her underwear, bra and the ring on her finger.

She’d been at home one night a week and a bit ago, contemplating texting Killian to see what time he finished work. She hadn’t seen him since Halloween, hadn’t really spoken to him either apart from a stilted text here and there and she would really like to speak to him. Just to clear the air, if nothing else. It’s been weird. This whole thing has been weird.

But just as she’d resolved to actually call him, there had been a knock at her door. And she’d be lying if she said that her first thought wasn’t that Killian had just somehow _known_ that she wanted to speak with him. A quick glance through her peephole had reminded her of why she’s lived her life as a realist.

“Hey August,” she’d said, as the man in question had stepped through the door, “Everything okay?”

And he hadn’t even bothered with a greeting and she was already a few steps back towards the couch, but she’d somehow known that something tricky was going on when the door didn’t close behind him and his warmth was no longer by her side.

She’d turned around to see him on one knee, a box poised and opened in his hands, a cheeky smirk on his face.

And of course she’d said yes – she’d already said yes. They’d laughed about it as he’d slid the elegant band, complete with diamond, on her ring finger, laughed at the surreal concept of it all, of how this has happened, of how it’s going to keep happening. This is it, this is them, for the rest of their lives. It’s kind of crazy.

But it’s enough.

Enough for her to stop thinking about how this time, this late hour, had always been for her and Killian. Enough to stop wondering why her stomach had dropped at the sight of August outside her door.

At least for a little while.

Emma twirls the ring on her finger, eyes unfocussed on everything but the shining diamond and the promise it holds in its grip. To love and honour. To cherish and protect. And she’s always been on her own – even when she’s been surrounded by people – she’s always made it on her own. So it’s strange to have someone else to think about now. The thing is, it shouldn’t be this strange. Right?

“Emma,” Mary Margaret calls out, “You okay in there?”

She opens her mouth to answer honestly because, of all her friends, Mary Margaret would know how to answer her questions. Mary Margaret would know what to say, what advice to give, how this is all meant to feel. She was the first one of their friends to get married, the one Emma knows they will all look to for advice because she and David got it right. It had been rocky because David had his ex, Katherine, on the scene for a while, but when the dust settled from that storm, Mary Margaret had been standing in the calm and it had just _worked_. They’d clicked and they’d never looked back.

There are about three dozen questions lingering on her tongue, but, before she can ask them, Ruby’s voice pipes up as well, taking the private moment with Mary Margaret away. “We think we’ve found bridesmaid dresses too!” she calls out, sounding so positively gleeful that Emma can’t help but smile.

Closing her mouth, she takes a deep breath and pulls her eyes up from her ring. “I’ll be right out,” she calls back.

She wonders how long this lot of distraction will last.

...

“Killian, this looks amazing,” Mary Margaret says as she walks onto the back deck of the small yacht, kissing Killian on the cheek as she passes him to follow the fairy light lit path into the cabin.

He shrugs but the tips of his ears redden slightly, showing his bashful nature, “Well, I did offer my boat and services for the evening. Had to put _some_ amount of effort in.”

David tries to kiss him on the cheek too, chuckling when Killian pushes him away at the antics. It breaks the tension as Emma steps up onto the boat next, tray of roast potatoes in hand. They’d each decided to bring something along to ease the burden on any one person doing all the cooking. Mary Margaret had always hosted their little family Thanksgiving affairs but, this year, for once, Killian hasn’t had to work, so he’d offered to host to make it a little easier on everyone.

Her eyes meet his and there’s a smile there, something regretful in his eyes, a ‘sorry’ without words. She nods meaningfully at him and knows that they’re okay now, they’ve restored the balance. “Just anywhere on the table, love,” he instructs as she walks past him and into the cabin where Mary Margaret is uncovering the turkey she brought along and David is already opening a bottle of wine.

Elsa trails in behind her, some masterpiece of a dessert in her hands, Victor after her with another dish, Ruby after him and, before she knows it, the cabin is full and August is next to her, pulling a lid off his green bean casserole. It’s not a large space and it’s definitely a tight fit, especially with the table in here and extended to fit the eight of them around it, but they make it work, all passing the dishes around and serving up each other’s plates. Mary Margaret and David have this solid routine going where they both seem to know exactly how much of each dish to plate up for each other and Emma gets a little lost in their movements until August offers her gravy and she holds up a hand and shakes her head. When she looks down next, there’s a bowl of cranberry sauce in front of her and she wishes she had to ask to know who left it there. But she knows.

She almost wants to be mad at him for seemingly knowing her better than her fiancé does, which is stupid because it’s just cranberry sauce. But, at the same time, it feels huge.

And then they’re all talking about what they’re thankful for this year and it’s really too difficult to be mad at him then. Because she’s thankful for this, for them, for her friends, her _family._ She’s thankful that, while everything seems confusing so much of the time, that she has these beautiful people to fall back on, that she has people who will catch her. She’s thankful for August and his steady hand on the small of her back, for the warm smile he greets her with and the soft kiss he presses to the corner of her mouth when she’s got to leave. She’s thankful for Ruby’s quick wit and ability to make everyone around her smile when all they want to do is fall apart. She’s thankful for Killian, that he’s _here_ , that he’s around, because it has been a while since this has been the norm for them all. It truly is something special.

They finish dinner, piling out onto the open deck to eat the cake that Elsa had made – she _really_ knows her way around chocolate – and seeing if they can spot any Christmas lights from their spot at the docks. They’d thought about going out on the water, away from the city, but as the cool air hits their skin, Emma is incredibly glad they stayed close to land.

There are blankets stored everywhere on this boat and Killian begins handing them out, passing them around the group as they take seats on the outdoor lounges facing the city. David and Mary Margaret curl up first, in the corner of one of the couches, David kissing the crown of Mary Margaret’s head and whispering sweet words of his own thanks for her in her ear. Ruby smiles at the pair before shocking the whole group in a quiet moment and reaching out for Victor’s hand. He seems to stiffen, but relaxes after a second and faces the brunette with a questioning look. She merely shrugs and leads him to another of the lounges. Emma stares after them, feeling Elsa looking on in confusion as well. How the hell had they missed that? When had it happened? _What_ is happening?

Ruby just smiles over at the group. “What?” she says, “Other people in the group can’t have secrets?”

Elsa is the first to recover, turning to Emma with a grin, “You owe me twenty.”

And she is all too happy to pay up, glad that her friends have finally gotten it together.

She feels August’s arm around her shoulders, his laughter at the unfolding events rumbling from his chest, through to her back and down her spine. “Yes, but _you_ owe _me_ twenty, Elsa.”

The blonde rolls her eyes, her smile firmly in place, “Please, you can’t fool me out of my own money. I’ll be collecting off everyone, thank you very much.”

It’s true though, Elsa had been the first to latch onto the idea of Ruby and Victor sorting themselves out. And that was way back in college. She’d also been the first to bet that it would take them at least a decade to work out how into each other they were. She’d reasoned that Victor still had med school to get through and Ruby was still getting over her Peter, her high school sweetheart who had sent her into a fierce rebound cycle.

Mary Margaret, ever the optimist had already lost the bet years ago when Ruby had spent the summer of their sophmore year hooking up with Mulan, the cute Chinese exchange student. David followed closely behind when, at graduation, Victor, in a slightly inebriated haze, had tried to hit on Mary Margaret. August had been like her and guessed even further into the future. He’d even been so bold as to suggest that they’d probably made a pact for their 40s, so he’d bet on that. Emma had been slightly more conservative and bet on 15 years from the beginning of college. And Killian…

She turns to him, suddenly curious because she can’t remember him ever piping up in discussion whenever this had come up. “When did you bet?” she asks.

He smiles but it’s almost sad, opening his mouth. But Elsa answers for him, still exuberant from the revelation and oblivious to the slight shift in mood that has just occurred, “Mr Pessimist over here said that it would never happen. That if two people couldn’t find their way to each other after as long as they had already known one another, then they never would.”

Emma meets his eyes again, sees the honest sadness in them. It wrenches at something in her heart, something that makes her want to shrug out of August’s hold and reach out and hug him. Makes her want to tell him that it’s not true, that people can still find their way to each other when it’s right.

There’s a chuckle going around the group as they all have a laugh at how wrong they were, but Emma keeps watching Killian. Can’t anyone else feel how sad he is? The guy who lost it all and can’t bring himself to see that, if two people are meant to be together, they’ll make it work.

Eventually his eyes clear and he laughs along with the others, pulling a twenty dollar bill from his wallet in good nature as the rest of them also pay up. Ruby smirks at the exchanges, clearly unfazed by the fact that her friends have been betting on her for years.

The rest of the blankets get handed around and they all settle in for the evening, idly chatting about life and what they’re going to be doing for Christmas. There’s wine and warmth and the city feels peaceful from their vantage point.

It would only make sense that it’s all interrupted by three phones going off simultaneously.

Victor, Elsa and August all reach for their pockets, their faces shifting from similar looks of confusion to panic as they all jump up from the couches and begin gathering their coats. The rest of the group look on at the hurried trio until Elsa hangs up first. “Black Friday riots already,” she says simply, “They need all hands on deck for media coverage and, seeing as the rest of my crew is currently overseas…”

It makes sense. Elsa is a travel photographer – how she got so lucky with that job, no one will ever know – but sometimes photos are needed for their local media and she often gets called out even when she is just at home. Especially when the job has taken the rest of her company to overseas locations and she’s the only one left in the city.

August is the next out of the cabin, coat zipped, looking at Elsa. Without saying a word, she understands and nods. “Yep, coming,” she answers to the unasked question. August writes for the Boston Globe; he’d always wanted to tell stories to the world and this is as close as he’s gotten so far. Any opportunity for a big story, he’s there though, and just waiting for his chance at something groundbreaking.

It’s understood that they need to cover this story and, while it’s not ideal that it’s on Thanksgiving evening, they’re all counting their blessings that they got through dinner at least.

Victor is the last to emerge, but first to disembark the boat, kissing Ruby goodbye quickly – the two of them still slightly chuffed that they’d managed to pull the wool over everyone else’s eyes for as long as they had – and waving at the rest of the group. Emma assumes that if there are riots, there are injuries, and she guesses that is why Dr. Victor Whale has had to take off in such a hurry.

August and Elsa say their apologies and their goodbyes a moment later as well, the former leaning down to press a gentle kiss against Emma’s temple, “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

She nods, “Yeah. Good luck out there. Look after Elsa.”

He smiles, “Of course.”

And, with a wave, they also leave.

“Well,” Mary Margaret starts, turning to David, “I guess we won’t be getting that new TV that you just _had_ to have,” she says in an all-knowing tone.

David scoffs and Emma gets the impression that this is something which has been quite the contentious issue for a while. She laughs along with Killian and Ruby at the couple.

“On that note,” Ruby says, pushing herself off the couch, “I think I’m gonna head off.”

A quick look at her watch tells her that it’s getting late and she’s just about to express the same sentiment when David takes the words straight out of her mouth, “Yeah, we’d best be getting home too.” Emma can tell that he’s already planning his escape so that he _can_ attend the Black Friday sales. Mary Margaret just rolls her eyes, but agrees with him nonetheless.

And, suddenly, it’s just her and Killian again, in that famous late hour they always seem to find themselves in, and she can’t leave him to all the cleaning up, so, instead of going home as she had intended only minutes ago, she volunteers to stay behind and help clear away all the dishes.

“Thanks, love. But you don’t have to,” Killian protests, already making his way into the cabin to do it himself. But Emma follows him without a word, piling plates up as he clears the platters in the middle of the table.

She can tell he’s biting back a retort, but he holds his tongue, for which Emma is grateful. She doesn’t want to fight with him, not tonight.

He seems to have the same idea because, instead of arguing with her over who will wash the dishes, he grabs her hand and a bottle of rum from the bar and leads her over to the stairs that open up to the small upper deck. Because Killian is always prepared, there are two chairs up there and a couple of extra blankets too. Leaning back in her seat, she picks up the nearest blanket to her and wraps it around her shoulders, immediately recognising the scent of the man next to her all tangled within its threads. Without realising, she inhales deeply and rests back in the chair, the comfort she draws from her friend coming easily.

It’s quiet for a while, just the two of them looking up, not at the city, but at the limited stars they can see above their heads.

“I’m sorry for overreacting at Halloween,” he says and, if it weren’t for the fact that she’s the only person within earshot, she’d question whether he was even talking to her. She hears the cork from the glass bottle of amber alcohol hit the deck, hears Killian take a swig and swallow, sees the bottle pass across her line of vision.

“Thank you,” she says just as quietly, accepting the olive branch and drinking from it.

“It was just a shock, is all. I didn’t know it was coming.”

Emma hands him the rum back, turning her head to watch as he takes another mouthful, watches as his throat bobs through the burn. “You wanna know a secret?” she asks, reaching out to grab another drink, before setting the bottle in the space between them.

“Aye,” he says, finally turning to meet her alcohol buzzed gaze.

“I didn’t see it coming either. Any of this. Of our lives, of our careers, of August. Of our _wedding._ ” She pauses briefly, searching his face for…something. She doesn’t know what, but _something._ She knows that she can’t find it there though, whatever it is, he’s not ready to show it. So she blinks and averts her gaze. “I just…I didn’t see it coming either,” she finishes lamely, picking at a frayed edge of the blanket around her shoulders.

She’s so distracted by her own inner musings that she doesn’t notice he’s leaned over until she feels his finger under her chin, the touch warm and electric, “Darling, you were always made for something unexpected.”

There’s something in his voice, something in the way it cracks, that makes her look up and then they’re just staring across the void at each other, a vast infinity stretched between them.

He comes back to himself first, pulling his hand back and sitting up slightly to resume their back and forth drinking, picking up the bottle once more.

“It’s a shame August had to leave earlier; I’d’ve liked the chance to apologise to him as well. I was a bloody idiot that night.”

Emma can hear the remorse in his voice and knows that it’s not warranted as far as August is concerned. He hasn’t said a thing to Emma about Killian being anything less than receptive of the news. She merely waves a hand through the air, delighting in the slightly heavy feel of her limbs that comes after a couple of glasses of wine and a few shots of liquid warmth. “You don’t need to apologise, Killian,” she says in a dismissive way.

He seems to accept that, for a moment at least, and they go back to staring up at the endlessness above them.

Until, “Do you remember the end of high school?”

Her heart skips a beat, because yes, of course she remembers the end of high school. But they have steadfastly _not_ spoken about that for the last 12 years. To do so would break every unspoken rule they’ve ever put in place. But Killian doesn’t bring up the party they’d had on this very boat, doesn’t bring up the way Ryan Cabrera had been playing as they’d found themselves behind the bar, tucked out of sight, drinking Liam’s rum. He doesn’t mention the way she’d stumbled against him as they’d tucked the bottle away and made their way back out to the main area of the cabin, doesn’t mention the way he’d held her waist to help her find her sea legs, doesn’t mention the knowing grin that had adorned Liam’s face when he’d found them pressed together in their darkened corner.

But Emma still remembers it anyway.

Biting her lip, her hand unconsciously wandering to the smooth edge of the compass in her pocket – because, of course, she’d brought it with her. She always brings it with her – she nods, “Yeah.”

He doesn’t seem to notice the wavering in her voice or, if he does, he doesn’t mention it. “Life felt so full of potential back then. Everything was still an opportunity.” She senses that he’s not done just yet, so she waits for him to continue, reaching out a hand across the gap between them and holding his tight, squeezing when he links their fingers. “I wish I had made some different choices back then, Swan. I wish that I had finished college and that I’d never gotten into bed with a married woman. I wish I’d been around more.”

And she wishes that too. Wishes that things had gone a completely different way at that point in their lives. She remembers the day Milah had been introduced to her in his kitchen, wearing nothing but his shirt and her wedding ring, her dark curls and piercing blue eyes all wrong for Killian. Her friend needed a counterbalance, not someone exactly the same as him. Dark doesn’t cancel dark, it only enhances it and there had already been too much darkness in Killian’s life.

But she had played him like a fiddle and left him heartbroken, miserable and drunk at his own bar as she’d walked out of his life. And he’d become stuck in this permanent rut ever since; hands gripping at the walls, but not being able to move over them. Just barely holding on. His big brother gone, his parents too, long ago. This man, this boy, lost and alone.

“It seems like you’ve been working on that a bit of late, though,” she says because, honestly, she doesn’t think she’s seen him this often outside the bar since before Liam passed away in their junior year of college.

Killian nods, “Trying. Yeah.”

Emma squeezes his hand again, “Maybe it’s not too late to change those choices then, Killian.”

She says it good naturedly, but she feels the moment he starts to withdraw again, his hand pulling from hers. He answers her with a, “Yeah,” but it feels false. It feels the way it does when she looks at herself in the mirror and tells herself that she’s not alone now. That people aren’t just going to up and leave her.

Some days she doesn’t believe herself and she’s willing to bet that there are some days when Killian does the same.

“I should get going,” she mutters, already sitting up, her welcome feeling well and truly overstayed.

He nods along with her, but doesn’t move, “I might just stay here a while.” He only lives a short cab ride up the road and Emma knows that he’ll get home safely when he’s ready. She knows what it’s like to just need that time to think though and that’s the stage it seems like Killian is at. Just needs to lay out where his life is at and where it is going.

“Take your time,” she says, folding a blanket and heading towards the stairs.

She’s already halfway off the boat, but she swears she hears him say, “Sometimes I think I’ve already taken too much.”

She clutches the compass in her jeans pocket, the little thing that comes with her no matter if they’re staying by the bay or out on the open water, and wonders if perhaps Killian is the one who needs it to find his way.

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this so that I can focus on it instead of the jitters I feel over 5B starting in a day!! Hit me up with any thoughts :)


	4. Don't Forget Me or Who You Are

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently you’re all starting to wonder if there’s ever going to not be angst…one day ;) My beautiful betas know the answer to that. Thank you all for you feedback and comments. And thank you, as always, to the two wonderful women who help me out when I have typo blow outs. @oubliette14 and @lifeinahole27, you’re amazing!

“Are we ever going to talk about the bachelor party?” Victor asks, popping the top on another beer and reclining on the couch, “Because I have a lot of ideas.”

August chuckles, “No strippers. You’re a taken man now.”

Victor grins, but doesn’t say anything else. David tears his eyes away from his new flat screen – who says persistence doesn’t pay off? – and nods in agreement, “Yeah man, no strippers. It’s a guys night out.”

Again, Victor persists, “You’re just jealous because you didn’t have any at yours.”

David only shakes his head, looking to Killian to help out – this is to no avail though, as he merely shrugs and settles back to enjoy the bickering over the age old bachelor party argument.

In the end, August seems to have won the battle, Victor only agreeing to no strippers once Killian finally helps out by offering _his_ services for the event. “Okay, fine. But it’s going to be a real night out. No one is going to leave early because of wives or girlfriends. We’re doing this college style – until the sun comes up.”

The other three somewhat reluctantly agree. “We’re not doing this the night before the wedding though. I need a week to recover these days,” August says, very aware of how old that makes him sound. But he simply doesn’t care. They’re in their 30’s now and it definitely comes with some delayed rebound time from a night of booze.

“Okay,” Victor says, slipping his phone out of his pocket and bringing up Ruby on his message screen, “the week before the wedding it is.”

…

“Hey guys,” Ruby says, sipping on her homemade margarita as she locks her phone back up and looks across the countertop of her kitchen to get her friends’ attention, “Can we talk about the bachelorette party?”

Emma frowns, pausing mid-conversation with Elsa and Mary Margaret to regard the brunette seriously, “Why? What have you planned?”

A grin spreads across Ruby’s face at the assumption that she’s up to something nefarious, which would be totally in character for her, but today she’s actually just genuinely curious. “Nothing,” she says, holding her hands up in defense, “I was just thinking that the guys are probably all sitting around that way too big TV over at Mary Margaret’s place planning what kind of mischief they can get up to.”

Mary Margaret leans over the counter, “You think it’s too big as well? I thought I was just being pedantic about it…”

Ruby grips Mary Margaret’s hand, “We’ll get to that next. Right now we need a plan of action.”

Taking a sip of her own margarita, Emma says, “We did speak about having the parties the weekend before the wedding to allow for recovery time.” The other three women nod along in unison, “But that’s about as far as we got in terms of plans before we got distracted.”

Ruby’s face lights up. “Emma! Now we’re talking. Enjoying the spoils of fiancé-hood?” she exclaims, propping her elbows on the bench and resting her chin in her palms.

Emma just rolls her eyes, “We got distracted because August wants to move in together.”

Mary Margaret pipes up at that, “Well, you _are_ getting married.”

“I know that. It’s just…isn’t there a protocol for this? Don’t we find a new place together? I like my place and I like my stuff. August’s place isn’t big enough for us to both have our stuff.” She knows it’s probably petty, but she’s worked hard for the things in her apartment. She’s come from nothing to having a place that she considers home and that’s a big deal for an orphan. August has been nothing but patient and understanding with her, but he does mention it fairly regularly. “And, for the record,” she begins again, “We haven’t, ah, _distracted_ ourselves in that way. I mean, we’ve kissed, but…I don’t know…the rest might take some time.” She gets the feeling it will be something that _just happens_ ; there will be a moment when they’re both ecstatic over something and it will be easy for one thing to lead to another. She finds herself thinking about it more and more…

Behind her, Elsa coughs and they all turn around to see her setting down her margarita as she tries to get a breath in. “Sorry,” she manages, “Went down the wrong way.” She composes herself fairly quickly, leaning back against the countertop and signaling that the conversation can continue now.

Ruby takes that as her cue to get talking about the bachelorette party again, “So I was thinking we should celebrate this momentous occasion at the bar.”

They all know exactly which bar she’s speaking about – it’s the only bar they frequent really – and Emma looks at her in confusion, having had expected something much more sinister. The bar she can handle. The bar she likes.

Ruby seems to take Emma’s look as confusion over _why_ she had suggested it and begins to explain, “I mean, think about it. Killian won’t be there so we can take full advantage of the rest of the talent who work there. We’re well known so we’ll get drink deals all night and we all know our way home from there, so no lost girls at the end of the party.”

They all groan simultaneously at the mention of getting lost. Mary Margaret’s bachelorette party had gotten a little out of hand and they’re all still living it down. They’d ended up on the opposite side of the city to where they all lived and while, in the daytime, they could all navigate themselves around pretty well, by night, and after quite a few tequila shots – someone _really_ needs to ban Ruby from making the drink decisions – they’d become completely useless.

Somehow or another, Emma and Elsa had ended up curled up in the back of a stranger’s pick-up truck, huddled under some blankets they’d found back there, Ruby had, in fine form, vomited all over some guy’s shoes and he’d offered to take her back to his place to clean up. Remarkably, he’d actually been a gentleman and Ruby still tells the story of that one time she went home with a guy and they played Monopoly until 6am, after which he decided to make her pancakes for breakfast and pay for her cab home. And Mary Margaret, being the determined person she is, decided that she could walk home. So she did. And, when she’d looked it up on a map later that day, she’d realised it had taken her the better part of three hours to walk what could have been done in about 30 minutes.

It was definitely a night that had gone down in history between the ladies, but it was also a night that no one wanted a repeat of.

“Okay,” Emma says, “So it’s decided. The 4th of February will be spent at the bar.”

She’s already counting it in her head and it’s only nine weeks until that date, so ten until the _big_ day. Less than three months and she will be getting married. Less than three months and she still doesn’t know if she feels ready for all of this.

Still, she clinks her margarita glass with her friends’ and makes sure to smile because, if she can fool them, maybe she can fool herself.

…

“I don’t understand why you’re insisting on this tasting, Elsa. I know what your cakes taste like and I more than wholeheartedly approve whatever you decide to make.”

Elsa just arches an eyebrow at her friend, “Emma, I know that this isn’t conventional and you’re not a big wedding person, but this cake is important,” she points towards one of the bar stools at Emma’s kitchen bench, instructing her with her eyes to plant her butt there now, “And it’s important for me to get it right and to give you the full wedding cake experience.”

Taking a breath, she listens to her friend and sits down, eyeing off the assortment of samples Elsa has brought along. “How many cakes did you make, exactly? You can’t afford to be buying all these ingredients just for a tasting.”

Elsa plants her hands on the bench, leaning over, her slight stature surprisingly intimidating, “Emma Swan, stop making excuses. I made sample cakes, okay. They’re just small. Now sit back and enjoy.”

Emma smiles at her friend. If she’s being honest, it’s nice to see her taking charge of the situation. Elsa has been best friends with Ruby since before the two of them can remember and being friends with Ruby tends to come with being “the quiet one,” so it’s good to see her in her element and owning it.

Focusing on the cakes, she says, “Okay, so what do I do?”

Elsa smiles sweetly at her acquiescence, “Well, first of all, we wait for Killian to get here.”

Emma looks up at that in confusion, “Killian?”

“Yeah, well, August wasn’t available, right? So I asked around and Killian was the only other person in the group who was free today. Hope that’s okay.” She says it like it had better be okay because it’s already done and she’s not changing it. Emma knows she doesn’t have a choice in this. “I like to get a couple of opinions,” Elsa finishes, shrugging and sorting out the cake samples on plates that she’s brought along with her.

“Of course it’s okay,” Emma says, trying to quiet the voice in her head that’s screaming out that she hasn’t seen Killian since Thanksgiving and, what still feels like, too heavy a conversation to handle. And maybe this isn’t okay.

Except then there’s a knock on her door and she’s answering it like any other time and he’s walking into her kitchen like he’s meant to be there and she’s struck all at once with the memory of her birthday night and the ease they’d shared those short couple of months ago. He jumps up on a barstool, rubbing his hands together at Elsa’s creations, before tapping the seat next to him, “Come on, Swan. There is cake to be tasted.”

Getting a grip on herself, Emma swings herself up next to Killian, focusing on what Elsa has to say about each of the cakes. They taste a rich white chocolate mud cake and a marble swirl vanilla and chocolate sponge as well – Emma may sneak an extra little helping of that one. There’s everything from lemon drizzle to strawberries and cream but, by the time they get through that sweetness, they’re both craving the slight bitterness of Elsa’s famous dark chocolate mud cake.

There is practically drool hanging from Emma and Killian’s mouths, but Elsa just has one more, “Before we get to the obvious favourite, I just wanted to let you try this one as well.” She pulls out a light brown coloured cake.

Emma sits up on her stool and notices that Killian does as well. Before she can ask, he’s already got that question covered, “Is that the one I had when I dropped off my guitar?”

Elsa smiles and nods, but Emma’s slightly focused on the whole guitar situation. Her thoughts seemingly running away from the cake side of things, she asks, “Why did you need his guitar?” as though Killian isn’t even in the room.

Not sensing any of the uneasy tension that is rolling through Emma, Elsa shrugs and answers simply, “I have a lot of spare time when I’m home, so I thought I’d take up a hobby. I didn’t want to fork out the money for the instrument though, so Killian offered his.”

She turns to the man in question, “Oh, so you knew about this?”

He looks at her quizzically because it shouldn’t be a thing that she’s angry about and, yet, she’s definitely treating him a bit like he’s under a spotlight, “Ah, yes. Should I not have, love?”

Emma catches herself at his odd look, hearing the accusation in her tone and wondering what the hell she’s upset about. Shaking her head, she covers her minor outburst with a smile and a wave of her hand. “No, no. Sorry, I just,” she turns to Elsa and softens her voice further, “I didn’t know you wanted to learn, that’s all.”

Elsa narrows her eyes at her for a moment but seems to accept the answer, “Yeah, only started in October.”

She’s probably forcing it now, but, “That’s great. You and Killian should play for us all one day.”

But, if it’s too much, Elsa doesn’t let it show, nodding towards the cake once more, “I don’t know; I think one talent per person in the group is enough to share and I chose baking a long time ago.”

Emma nods, smiling at her friend and her incredible ability to diffuse what was an underlying tense situation. She guesses that’s where having a younger sister helps, someone that Elsa’s been through every up and down with; there is rarely a situation that she can’t handle.

“And we will be spoiled for life. You’re never allowed to leave us.”

Elsa laughs lightly, but the whole situation still feels slightly askew and Emma knows that she has absolutely put her foot in it. The thing is, she’s not sure _why_ she’s acting this way, she doesn’t know why she’s feeling so up and down. Except that she does, but she doesn’t want to think about that or deal with it. In her experience, ignoring things until they go away has always worked. And so what if she downs a pint of boozy Choc Fudge Brownie every now and then to keep the thoughts at bay in her mind? Who really cares?

She picks up the soft brown cake that Elsa has made and pops a portion in her mouth, all other thoughts disappearing from her head as she lets the flavour hit her tongue and, “God! That is amazing!”

Killian smiles knowingly, “Isn’t it?”

And it slams back into her all at once exactly _why_ this whole situation is a shit storm. Chewing on this gloriously decadent butterscotch cake, Emma Swan lets her mind flick to that fucking night at the end of high school. She lets her thoughts be overrun with memories of the feel of his hand on the skin of her back, the brush of his leg hair against the smoothness of her shins and the absolute heat of his lips, insistent and perfect on hers. In that moment she’d felt like this inner fire had reared up in her, this white hot _need_ to lay claim to the man in front of her.

There have been very few people in her life who she could trust, who she could hold onto. August had always proven that he’d come back, had been the friend she’d needed when she’d felt forgotten and lost. Mary Margaret had made her feel appreciated, had asked her for advice that no one else could give. David had taken on a brotherly role, protecting her heart when she’d had it broken. She needs every person in her life but, in that tiny moment – his free hand pressed against the racing heartbeat in her chest – she’d felt as though Killian Jones had _needed her_. And that is so damn precious to her that it almost breaks her in half to think of him having these private moments with anybody else.

Even if it’s just knowing about a type of cake because he had dropped off his guitar that one time.

She’s felt these feelings rush through her so many times in the past that she’s able to compartmentalise them all within seconds and brush off the incredulous shaking of her head as marvel at the delicious cake she’s just sampled.

Elsa grins, “Okay, you can have the mud now.”

Emma greedily grabs at the dark chocolate cake. She’s had this same cake a thousand times over the years, Elsa’s specialty coming out to play at most of their groups’ events. But it tastes a little different tonight, the butterscotch flavour still melting on her tongue and mixing in with the rich dark chocolate. Definitely not an unwelcome change though. “Mmm,” she moans, swiping another piece of the cake, “I think we all know this is the one.”

From beside her, Killian swallows his cake and speaks up, “As your stand-in fiancé today, I need to ensure that you’re making the right choice. Are you positive that you don’t wish to try something different?”

Emma can still taste the smooth buttery caramel flavour on her tongue and is positive that everyone at the wedding would love the different cake. But she can’t.

She’s made her choice and that’s all there is to it. So, with a shake of her head, she confirms, “No, I’ll stick with the old favourite.” And she can’t bring herself to regret that choice, even when Elsa leaves and Killian offers to give her a lift home instead of her catching the bus and all Emma can taste is the bitterness of the dark chocolate.

…

“Are you sure this isn’t too much?” Emma asks for the fifteenth time, ducking her head out of the bathroom and seeking August across the room.

He turns around to survey her, eyes sweeping over the long sleeved red dress that she’s got on, her hair in a stylish mess of tumbling curls with a dainty green elf hat perched on top. Her lips are painted red, eyes with a little more mascara than usual and she’d even gone to the effort of making sure her nails were done. “You look beautiful, Emma,” he says honestly.

But that’s not what she asked. “I’m serious. This is a big deal.”

August smiles, stepping across the room to meet her at the door to his ensuite. One of her Santa earrings is lopsided, so he fixes that up gently before slipping his hand into hers and leaning up against the doorframe. “We attend this party every year and you always dress up. We’ve been there at the same event for longer than I can actually remember. Sure, this year we’re going to be arriving in the same cab as a couple but, Emma, what is this really about?”

She looks up at him and has honestly never felt more vulnerable. It’s only now that she’s starting to recognise how well he knows her. And he’s right; they have this party every single year at Ruby’s grandmother’s diner and they always arrive in some variation of together – whether they’ve got Elsa in the cab with them or hitch a ride with Mary Margaret and David – so it shouldn’t be a big thing. In all honesty, she knows exactly what it is that’s bothering her, but she doesn’t know how to just come out and say it.

“August, it’s not about _getting to_ the party.”

He looks at her curiously for a moment before it slips into place, a look of comprehension dawning across his face, “It’s because you’re staying here tonight, isn’t it?”

And it is. But it isn’t.

She and August have shared a room before, shared a bed, have crawled beneath the blankets to tell each other stories of how they were going to get out of the group home. Even when Marco had taken her in and she’d had a room to herself for the very first time in her life, she and August used to sneak into each other’s beds and whisper quietly until they fell asleep. So it’s not that she’s going to be staying in August’s place tonight, it’s not that they’ll be sharing a bed tonight; that’s not the thing that’s bothering her.

It’s the fact that staying with him means that they’re really doing this, that they’re going to be married and living together and this is it for her. It’s funny because all those years of speaking to August under the covers had given her this little spark of hope, this tiny little flame that she hadn’t even recognised was within her until tonight. That little spark was for true love and magic and for those things to be real, for her to be able to experience them. Without realising, she’d thought that maybe, one day, she would be one of those lucky people who got to walk down the aisle to the person they had loved all their life. And she loves August, she does. It’s just that she’d never pictured marrying him.

And now, despite the fact that he’s the reason she will never be alone, that little flicker of hope will be extinguished. The stories that August told her were just that, tales of a little boy who dreamed of finding his own happy ending.

Looking up into the blue eyes of her fiancé, she nods, her stomach in knots at what his reaction will be. She’s ashamed to admit that she hopes he will see her for the weak person she is and cast her aside. It would almost hurt less because it’s what she’s come to expect.

But he doesn’t, instead reaching a hand up to cup her cheek, “If you’re not ready, you can stay at yours and come over in the morning. Everyone will be here tomorrow, we’ll have a good time and then you can see if you want to stay after that?”

She smiles up at him and his concern. It does her head in sometimes how lucky she is to have him and it definitely strengthens her resolve. “It’s okay. I want to stay. It’s only two months until the wedding and I…” she breaks off, searching for the right words. Everything coming to her mind feels cheesy and overused though, so she just finishes honestly, “I just want to.”

He returns her smile, “Of course.”

…

Mary Margaret pulls her aside a couple of hours into the party, the two huddled in the back part of the diner near the jukebox. “What?” she asks her friend, wondering what could have her sneaking the two of them off.

“What is going on with you tonight?” she hisses, setting her apple cider down on the ATM by her side.

Emma frowns, “Nothing?”

At that, Mary Margaret just raises her eyebrows, “So what has Ruby been talking about for the whole night?”

She folds her arms and waits for an answer that isn’t coming because Emma has been spaced out since the second she walked through the door this evening. She’s been in a whole other world, throwing glances towards the door every few minutes and breaking those up with glances towards August over the other side of the diner.

“Seriously, Emma. She hasn’t drawn breath; has been literally speaking about it for two hours straight…” she hints, trying to jog _something_ in Emma’s memory.

The blonde sputters a bit before admitting defeat, her eyes flicking to the door once more, “I don’t know.”

Mary Margaret shakes her head, “Ruby and Victor are moving in together. Now, what is _wrong_?”

She shrugs, leaning back against the wall and taking a deep breath, “How did you know David was the one for you?”

A look of understanding passes across her face. “Oh, so this is cold feet. Okay, cold feet I can deal with,” she says as though she’s a therapist who has just made a breakthrough with their patient. Reaching out, she takes Emma’s hand in hers, “You and August are good for each other. He’s always got your back and you’ve got his. And I know this is something that is new and it feels like it should be fireworks all the time, but sometimes it’s just about being comfortable with each other and I’ve never seen you more comfortable as when you’re around him.”

Emma smiles at her friend, squeezing her hand. She’s grateful for the reassurance, but, “But how did you _know_?”

Mary Margaret blinks up at her as though it was obvious, “David was the first guy I’d known that I could be completely myself around. He loved me for my flaws just as much as my strengths. Just the same way August loves you.”

Emma swallows the lump in her throat because that’s not the answer she was looking for, but she can’t let her friend know that. Mary Margaret is the kind of person who believes in eternal love, bonds that can’t be broken, can’t be destroyed. If she knew how tentative this thing with August was, she’d be the first to tell her to break it off. So she can’t let her know. Because she _has_ to go through with it; a lonely existence is not one that she wants to be a part of.

The bell above the door dings again and Emma’s eyes flick straight to it, disappointment flooding her when she sees that it’s just another person she doesn’t know.

To the side of her, Mary Margaret narrows her eyes in sudden understanding. “You know Killian couldn’t get the night off work, right?” she says, “Apparently Christmas Eve is one of their busiest nights.”

No. No she did not know that. But it’s probably because she hasn’t spoken to Killian since their cake testing drama. There’s beginning to be a pattern here. One of them puts their foot in it and they make up at the next group gathering. But, when he’s not here, it makes it kind of difficult.

She nods, already seeking out August in the crowd; she’s been here long enough, surely she can leave without too much fuss. “Well someone’s got to keep all the ladies entertained, right?” she mutters bitterly.

Before Mary Margaret can ask her just what the hell is wrong again, Emma takes off towards the other side of the diner. Making her way through the crowd to August, who is now speaking with Elsa, she tries to push her friend’s words from her mind, before she can over analyse them, by grabbing hold of her fiancé’s hand.

He looks at her, smiling until he sees the anguish in her eyes, “What’s wrong?”

She shakes her head, not quite sure how to express what she needs to. In the end, she looks apologetically at Elsa and then back at August to ask, “Is it too early to leave?”

If she hadn’t have already planned to spend the night at his place, she would have high tailed it out of there as soon as possible. Unfortunately, being in a relationship where he’s the only one with keys means that you have to check in.

And she can already tell from his hesitation that, yes, it is too early; he’s not done here yet, but he shakes his head, instead of calling her on it, and says, “Of course not,” before turning his attention back to Elsa, “We’ll see you tomorrow for dinner, right?”

The blonde nods. “Sure. Have a good night, you two,” she says before hugging them both and making her way over to the bar where Ruby is standing.

August guides her out of the diner and over to the side of the road where they wait for a cab. Turning to face her, reaching out to hold her cheek in his palm, he looks at her with questioning eyes, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she says too quickly. “Just tired,” following up a lie with another lie. Great.

He nods, lips pressed together in a tight line, and she feels so damn guilty. There’s no hiding the shame in her voice, no way he hasn’t picked up on the fact that she was just feeling overwhelmed and that’s why she needed to leave, no way to avoid the thought that, if they weren’t a _thing_ , he’d still be in there and she would probably be as well.

Except that they _do_ manage to avoid it, they manage to not talk about it, to hide behind lame excuses and misguided nobility. And, when a cab rolls up next to them, they continue to ignore the niggling feelings in their stomachs and just go home.

…

It’s wrong. It’s all wrong.

Her chest feels tight, her mouth dry and, despite her horizontal position, she feels dizzy, as though she could just pass out. But the sleep would be restless and confining and, god, what made her think that she was ready for this level of intimacy? She hasn’t shared a bed with a guy for an entire night since…well, since August the last time; on the eve of their high school graduation and the end of an era where she had actually felt some kind of stability and control over her life.

It had felt overwhelming then as well. A kid who had spent her whole life getting left behind was finishing something. But ends meant changes and changes meant that maybe Marco wouldn’t want her hanging around anymore. They’d never really spoken about it, whether she would be able to stay past the end of school. She’d already turned 18; was already old enough to look after herself.

She’d ended up curled around herself, crying silently in her bed when August had knocked on her door and let himself him. He’d been quiet, crawling into bed behind her and pulling the blankets up over their heads. He’d switched on his torch and bathed them in a purple hued light, the strong beam bouncing off the underside of her duvet.

She’d rolled over to face him, not quite meeting his gaze, ashamed of her tears. August and Marco had been good to her for the past six years; she shouldn’t be crying – that’s just selfish.

August had reached out to wipe away her tears, curling his arm around her waist and pulling her to him until she had been able to tuck her head under his chin and rest against his chest.

“I mean, he’s your dad; he’s not going to let you go,” she’d admitted, her fear eating her alive under the covers.

August had just shaken his head, “You’re his family too, Emma.”

She’d swallowed, “And you? What am I to you?”

He’d kissed the crown of her head and answered honestly with, “I’m the person who will never let you be alone.”

And that’s exactly what he’s done since. And she can’t believe it’s taken until now to see it, to see that he’s given up so much of himself to ensure that she’s happy. Even tonight, the simple act of leaving with her when he clearly wanted to stay… God, what has she done to him?

The weight of his arm slung across her waist feels completely suffocating, so, even in the cool weather, she finds herself stretching her arms out of the covers and reaching out for her phone on the bedside table to check the time quickly. Anything to distract herself from the buzzing thoughts in her head.

But, upon opening her lock screen, she sees that she has four messages from Killian there. Frowning, she opens the first one.

_Went to your place with the usual late night special – my empty plate ready for leftovers – but you mustn’t be home yet. Party still raging at Granny’s?_

She smiles and scrolls down to the next message.

_Can’t see you at Granny’s. You here?_

The third message is a picture, which she taps to load, suppressing a laugh when she sees the selfie of Killian with Ruby and Victor, Santa hat firmly planted on his unruly hair, the three of them holding up shots of what is very likely tequila.

Checking the timestamps, she realises that the final message had come through about half an hour after the picture, so Emma can only imagine the antics that had happened in that time, especially with Ruby’s influence.

_Ruby says you’re at August’s. Which makes sense. Merry Christmas, Emma._

He’d followed up with every Christmas emoji known to man, to which she smiles at.

Biting her lip and debating with herself for a moment, she begins to write back a quick message of Christmas wishes for him. But what comes out is something entirely different.

_Can’t sleep. Night cap?_

She sends it before she can think twice on it, holding her breath without realising she’s holding her breath until the little tick appears next to the message to say it’s been read. Instead of replying though, his name and face flash up on her screen, lighting up the room with his call.

August is still fast asleep, so she slips from under his arm and pads her way out to the living room, answering the call with a whisper because she’s not sure how sound travels in this apartment and the thought of August catching her makes her feel oddly guilty.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he says, referring to the night cap, “I’m outside.”

Without much else to go on, she rushes over to the window by the dining table and peers out, seeing her friend out swinging around a lamp post, still wearing his Santa hat.

“Aren’t you freezing?”

He must realise she can see him because he stops aimlessly spinning and looks up to the window, waving when he spots her.

“I won’t be after a spot of rum,” he answers.

She rolls her eyes because she’d only half meant it about the whole grabbing a drink thing. “Killian, it’s 1am…”

He flashes a grin up at her. “Our time,” he translates, and she hates that she’s already resigned herself to the fact that she’ll be heading down there.

“Let me grab a coat,” she says, hanging up and pushing back from the window. She runs back into the bedroom and pulls on her red pea coat and a pair of boots, swiping a bottle of rum from August’s stash and heading out the door.

“M’lday,” he greets her, bowing so low the fluffy white ball of his Santa hat tips over the front of his face.

She snorts, rolling her eyes and stepping up to push the hat back, “How much did you have to drink at Granny’s?”

He smiles, eyes dancing all across her face as though trying to take every detail of her in at once while she’s pressed so close to him. “Just a few,” he eventually says, reaching out slowly to pull the bottle of rum from her hand, his fingers brushing hers in the process. “Pirate,” he accuses, knowing that it’s not her own alcohol.

She meets his stare with her own, challenging him, always trying to go one better, “In good company.” Pulling her hand back, bottle still in her possession, she swipes her thumb across the lid and silently thanks whatever Christmas miracles are happening right now that she is able to open the twist top as smoothly as she has. It hits the ground with a dull metallic ting as she raises the bottle to her lips for a long pull.

He raises his eyebrows, always constantly surprised by her, “Didn’t think you still had it in you, Swan. Married life seems to be changing you.”

Narrowing her eyes at him, she takes another swig just to spite him before handing him the bottle. He doesn’t let his eyes leave her as he also takes a drink, tongue flicking out to catch a stray drop on his bottom lip.

The move is to throw her off guard, she knows, and it almost works too. “What are you doing here?” she asks, “Shouldn’t you be off warming the bed of some pretty young thing from the bar?”

He frowns, the strength in his façade flickering, “Emma… You know I don’t,” he shakes his head and changes his approach, “I was young and lonely. I’m not that person anymore.”

And she knows, she really does. She knows that while he hasn’t been able to pull himself out of the darkness that has surrounded him since Liam’s death, she _knows_ that he’s not using his job as a platform for one night stands anymore. But, god, it would be so much easier than this if he was, if she could just write him off as a womaniser, a man after only one thing. It makes it so much harder that she knows she can’t anymore. Because it just means that her friend is hurting so much more.

His eyes soften as he sees her struggling to find the words to say, filling the silent void with his own pessimism, “Suppose we’re just destined to be alone forever.”

Shaking her head, she argues, “I have August.” Because she _can’t_ be alone. She won’t. She’s come too far to fall back behind her safety walls.

He scoffs though, sees right through the lies that she is trying to project, “You could have so much better, Emma”

“Like who?” Balancing on that edge again, teetering on the verge of every potential, knowing that he wasn’t necessarily referencing a person, but, at the same time, knowing exactly who he was talking about. “You?” And it’s out there, ready for him to pick up and take hold of, ready for him to wear his heart on his sleeve. She’s just made the invisible line very, _very_ visible

But he hesitates and she takes a step back from him, intending to go back upstairs. Until he grabs her wrist. And she’s not stupid, she knows he’d let go if she protested but she doesn’t. She lets herself be pulled forward, drawn back to him.

“Would it be so bad, Emma?”

“Killian,” she says, a warning tone to her voice.

But he persists, plucking the bottle of rum from her fingers and setting it down on the ground, all the while, never breaking eye contact with her. “You’re too afraid to take a chance on something real, something that could be amazing and true, because you’re caught up in something safe and loveless.”

She shakes her head. This isn’t what they do; they don’t talk about this, they don’t acknowledge it. “I do love him.”

It’s too much, too close, too soon. She needs to go, she needs to…

“Not the way I love you.”

There’s a breath and then there’s nothing.

The space in between them is practically non-existent, his fingers wrapped around hers, his breath warming her cheeks. And she can’t think of a word to say back to him.

Apparently though, he isn’t finished, taking advantage of her silence, lifting her knuckles to his lips to press a kiss in the space between her middle and index finger. Her breath hitches as she watches him watching her.

“And not the way you love me,” he finishes boldly.

She stiffens at that, hand instantly cooling in his, “You don’t know how I feel.”

Except, maybe he does. And maybe that’s what scares her the most. Not that he’s wrong, but that he could be right. But he’s pushed the limits tonight, the boundaries have been crossed and the line has been eradicated and, fuck, what does she do now?

The worst part is that she can see the understanding in his eyes, knows that he knows what has happened and what is going to happen next. And he’s going to let it. Because that’s who Killian Jones is. He’s the man who lets her walk away. And just like that, the memory of not only the night on the boat, but every other time he’s watched her go hits her square in the heart. And as much as she’s tried to push their kiss out of her mind, there’s another memory she’d buried deeper – a memory of his ultimate betrayal of her trust, of the morning he’d gone from being her friend to being that guy that she used to know.

“I need to go,” she says, pulling back from him and turning around to face the building.

She’ll see him tomorrow for Christmas dinner; she’ll see him tomorrow and they will fix this, but tonight she needs to be angry at him, needs to go back into the apartment where she’s building her life and remind herself of why Killian Jones is not right for her.

She doesn’t turn around for one last glance but, the next day when he calls to say he can’t make it to dinner, she finds herself wishing she had.

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically what you need to take away from this chapter is, yes, the stories of what happened to the ladies at Mary Margaret’s bachelorette party are all based on true events. Oh…and I’m sorry for that ending, but I just couldn’t help it…  
> Thoughts?


	5. I Won't Forget What Was Promised Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, guys! A combination of Easter and travelling home have kept me away from the words for a couple of weeks. But I have this story wrapped up now. Just this chapter and one more after to go :)  
> Thank you to @lifeinahole27 and @oubliette14 as always. Wonderfully beautiful betas (and phenomenal writers as well – if you’re not reading their stuff, I would definitely be putting it on the list.)  
> Hope this chapter offers some answers!

_Nine Years Ago…_

She’s never seen him like this, never seen the blue of his eyes so dull, the colour of his skin so pale – almost grey. There are deep edged semi-circles under his tired eyes and the stubble he usually keeps neatly trimmed has pushed out to a rugged looking beard. But it’s more than the physical; he just looks absolutely bone _tired_ , completely and emotionally exhausted.

Not that she could blame him, but _shit,_ that is not her friend sitting before her.

She holds his hand as a girl in her underwear runs around the apartment, picking up her clothes, throwing apologetic looks their way before glancing away apprehensively. Killian doesn’t even acknowledge her, Emma just sort of nods in her general direction; encouragement to continue collecting her things and get the hell out of there so she can try to fix this broken human who is a shell of her friend.

The petite blonde eventually ducks into the bathroom, emerging with the dress and heels from last night on and her hair perched in a messy bun on the top of her head. Emma nods at her once more and she looks curiously between the pair, opening her mouth and then closing it straight away, turning on her heel and walking out the door.

Killian breathes a sigh of relief and Emma looks at him, not sure if she should be showing him sympathy or anger. God knows the guy could probably use some tough love right now.

“At least that one had the decency to not ask when she would see you again,” she says dryly, squeezing Killian’s hand and standing up to make her way to the kitchen. “Breakfast?” she calls out, not waiting for a response before pulling a pancake mix from the pantry and adding milk to it. She’s never really been big on cooking, but premix pancakes she can do.

He appears at the doorway to the kitchen a few moments later, leaning against the frame and watching her add butter to the pan on the stove, “You don’t have to do this, you know?”

She grits her teeth and pours a healthy serving of the batter into the heated pan, swirling it around until it’s a nice circular shape. She turns to face Killian then, fixing him with her best glare, “I’d really just rather know that you’re eating something. So yes, I do have to do this.”

He steps closer to her, “I can take care of myself.”

Shaking her head, she grabs a spatula and flips the pancake, keeping an eye on it so it doesn’t burn, “You’ve always had someone, Killian. Just let me be that someone for a little while, okay?”

She’s a good few inches shorter than him, but he feels so small next to her, his body curling into hers as his head comes to rest on her shoulder. “I miss him,” he breathes and she can smell the stale alcohol emanating from him, the evidence of his complete and utter grief.

Sighing, she flicks the stove off and moves the pan away from the edge of the benchtop, turning until she can wrap her arms around his weary frame. She feels him crying more than sees it; his body shaking as he leans into her, his tears sliding down her neck and pooling at the juncture before her shoulder, cooling in the Sunday morning air.

She could tell him that it’s going to be okay, but she honestly doesn’t know how. Liam has _always_ been there, not just for Killian, but for all of them and she’s not sure where his death leaves them. So, instead of offering empty words of comfort, she just holds him, hoping that the place where their chests are pressed together, their heartbeats in erratic sync, is bringing him as much comfort as it is her.

The sun rises higher in the sky, the better part of an hour disappearing as they hold each other together and, eventually, his tears stop. Eventually, he takes in a breath and she knows he’s no longer crying. But, instead of pulling away, he wraps his arms around her tighter and she feels a different kind of wetness on her neck. It takes her a second to realise it’s his lips and tongue dragging across her skin, his hot breath dampening the places his tears had dried. The counter is hard, digging into the wrong part of her back, but he is so soft and hot and, “Uhh,” she whimpers as his hand drifts up her ribcage, thumb gliding over her breast before he palms the flesh roughly. And she’s right here, with him, but part of her longs for the carefree way he’d done the same thing just three years ago. She wishes they hadn’t been so afraid then, wishes they could have worked it out, that they hadn’t hidden behind the alcohol or the emotions of finishing high school or whatever other shitty excuse they’d come up with. Perhaps he’d be in a different place now, perhaps he’d choose her to lean on rather than drowning his soul in rum and women he can easily leave. Maybe, maybe, _maybe_ …

He bites down, just below her jawline and soothes with a sweeping stroke of his tongue, but the jolt of pleasurable pain is enough to shock her to awareness.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          

“Killian,” she says, bringing her hands up to his shoulders and pushing slightly.

His lips chase her skin even as he follows her gentle push and leans back, his hands falling from her body. “Emma, I…”

“Don’t,” she whispers, her voice as broken as his. It’s not the right time. Not yet. Not when everything is crumbling. “One day, maybe. We’ll work on it together.”

A hint of a smile passes across his face at that; it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it’s something. It’s a start.

But the next morning when she swings by his place to see if he’d like a ride to class with her, she finds him in bed, arm thrown across his eyes to keep the light out, the heavy scent of sex and rum in the air. She finds a woman in the kitchen, clad in only his shirt, moving around the space as though she belongs there. Tall, with piercing eyes and dark unruly curls, this woman carries darkness in her every movement.

“Milah,” she says, introducing herself by holding out her right hand, but Emma’s focus is solely on the left. The woman does nothing to hide it, the diamond ring and golden band beneath it shining in the early morning sun.

Before Emma can process that or even introduce herself, Killian has ambled into the kitchen, a pair of boxers the only thing on. Emma takes one look at him before deducing that he’s not coming to class today. He steps past her, wrapping his arms around Milah’s waist from behind and pulling her back into him. His eyes meet hers over the other woman’s shoulder and Emma understands the message he’s trying to get across. And god, it fucking hurts.

It’s as though that’s all he wanted from her to start with; just a quick fuck to ease the pain, like that could be _her_ standing in his kitchen the next morning. It hurts that that’s all he can think of her as. It hurts to see Milah looking so content and fucking _sated_ and it damn well hurts that he’s hurting so much.

“Okay,” she manages to say, her voice shaky, “I’ll see you later.”

The thing is, she doesn’t.

…

It has become their pattern since, well, since they’d started seeing each other regularly again. One of them would say something out of line and the other would find them at the next social event and extend an olive branch. She’d found him hunched over a toilet out the back of his workplace after Milah had left him. It could have been weeks, could have been months, since she’d walked out and it was only sheer chance that had brought Emma to the bar that night, Robin asking her to go check on his bartender while he struggled to keep up with the service. They’d both apologised then, both pulled it together enough to return to a tentative friendship, something so much more fragile than they’d ever had before. But it seems that their entire tree worth of olive branches has been given out now and they’re a few weeks into January already, with no events in sight. Apart from the wedding. But that’s a whole other thing.

Emma sighs, rolling over in bed. She has a day off and August left hours ago, so she’s been kicking her legs out under the sheets, spreading her arms wide above her head and simply luxuriating in the fact that she has the entire bed to herself. She hadn’t realised she’d missed it until he’d left for work and she’d finally felt like she could breathe.

Staring up at the ceiling, she silently asks the slightly cracked paint around the light fitting what it means that she can’t stop thinking about Christmas Eve and wondering what might have happened had she never sent that damn text.

Who asks another guy for a night cap when their fiancé is sleeping right beside them? Everyone knows what a night cap means. And she could argue that it’s because she and Killian are just friends that they can get away with it, but they both know that it’s something more than that. They’ve pushed past the stage of denial and entered into this weird phase of the unknown. She has no idea what to do with it, how to move forward and beyond it. How to still be friends with this man she's been friends with for so long already.

And she’s _mad_ at him for doing this now, for waiting until she was unavailable to speak up. She’s mad at herself as well, for pushing him away for so long. But she’s not without her reasons, just as she’s sure he’s not without his. It’s just absolute shit timing, _painfully awful_ timing.

She remembers watching _Peter Pan_ as a child, remembers seeing the Lost Boys and wishing there had been just one Lost Girl so that she could explain to people that _that_ is who she is. She had been absolutely alone in the world, no one to love her, to care enough about her, to know if that cough she’d caught had been around for days or weeks, to know that her socks needed mending or that the coat she wore was two sizes too big. When August had been taken away and she’d been forced from house to house, never finding a home, she’d contemplated curling up in a ball on the streets and just letting the world happen to her. She didn’t care, didn’t want to be a part of it anymore.

And then everything had changed. Her world had shifted and she’d been allowed to smile again, to take pride in herself, to wear clothing that fit her and go to a school where people she could call friends went as well. And she was allowed to stay there, build a home, build a family, build a life.

She’d vowed that she would never let herself be pulled into that darkness again, would never feel the chest constricting tightness of sadness in her body, would never fall to it or allow it to control her. She’d pushed herself out and she could _not_ go back.

And she had stuck to that. She’d worked hard and got good grades, she made people around her proud and, more than that, she made herself proud. She washed herself of the title of Lost Girl and came out clean and so, so grateful for the chances she had been given.

The thing is, though, that she had been given these chances so early in life and been able to use her formative years to turn it all around when she had been so young. And through those years, Killian had been lucky, well, as lucky as someone who had lost both his parents could be. But Liam loved him, Liam cared for him, Liam worried if his cough got too loud, worried if there were holes in his socks, worried that his clothes were too big, cared if he got to school on time or not. Liam loved his brother and Killian did the same. Until Liam wasn’t there anymore.

And that’s when it had all regressed for her friend. She watched him fold in on himself, watched as he lost himself to the darkness that Emma had only just pulled herself out of. She tried to help him as best she could, but she had known, even then, that it’s a choice that _you_ have to make. No one else can make it on behalf of you. So she stood by and watched it manifest in grey under his eyes, stubble on his chin, girls pouring themselves from his apartment every morning and Milah…oh, she had stood by and watched Milah.

It was false. It _is_ false.

She wonders when she lost the Killian she had grown up with. Wonders if she will ever get him back.

And that is why she can’t entertain this whole idea, can’t let him in. Why she is so fucking angry at him. Because she had been there, she had been there through it all and he refused to take her hand. And now look at them, look where they are, how they stand so far apart, out of olive branches to give.

She had spent Christmas morning with August and Marco, a little family thing that they’d always done. But, instead of enjoying it like she always does, she’d spent the whole time stressing about seeing Killian that evening. Marco had asked her if she was nervous about the wedding and she’d thought that would be an easy way to pass off her jitters, so she’d nodded. And, since then, August has been so attentive to her that she wishes she’d never done such a thing.

After he hadn’t shown up at Christmas though, the anxiety over it all had only worsened, which only made August more concerned and made her want to reassure him more and more. The vicious cycle had continued until New Year’s Eve when they’d made their way to Elsa’s place for the celebrations, the world traveller having had the holiday off for the first time in years. She’d still pulled out her camera though, taking a group photo of them all up against the window of her place, the early evening fireworks exploding in the background, Killian’s hand on the small of her back, a silent goodbye amongst all their friends. He’d left soon after, no chance to speak, to mend things. And when August had kissed her at midnight, she felt that darkness she’d pushed away all those years ago tinge the edges of her vision.

She rolls back over in the bed, pulls the covers over her head and groans into the pillow. Maybe if she hides away long enough, it’ll all just go away. 

…

Throwing the blankets off herself a few hours later, she finds that the aggressive moping in bed has really done her no good. It’s still only early afternoon, August isn’t due home until after six and she is in desperate need of company that isn’t her own. Picking up her phone, she idly scrolls through her contacts, thumb landing on Elsa and pressing ‘call’ before she can change her mind.

Half an hour later, she’s running down to the café a few blocks from her apartment, arriving just as Elsa also goes to step through the door.

“Shit!” Emma exclaims, trying to disentangle herself from her scarf, beanie and coat combination, “How do you do that?”

The other blonde smiles, knowing exactly what Emma is referring to; she’s always the first to arrive at events, always early to everything and, even today, when Emma lives a five minute walk away and Elsa lives across town, they’d still managed to arrive at the same time. Not to mention she looks so damn put together it hurts, her ice blue sweater a perfect complement to her dark jeans and tan boots. “You get us a seat, this one’s on me,” she says, not giving away any of her secrets.

“I invited  _you_ out,” Emma protests, trying to sneak past her friend to order first, but Elsa holds up her hands; a warning if ever she saw one.

“Sit, now. You invited me because you need this, so let me. Okay?”

Damn perceptive too. Emma’s suddenly not sure this was her smartest idea.

She does as Elsa says, finding a little booth by a window and waiting patiently. When a plate slides in front of her with a slice of lemon meringue pie on it, she looks up appreciatively. “How did you know?” she asks.

Elsa sits down with her own chocolate cheesecake and shrugs, “I’ve been your unofficial counsellor since college.” They take a bite of their respective treats and moan at the same time over the taste, before swapping plates and trying each other’s cakes. That simple tradition out of the way, Elsa leans across the table, eyes imploring, and asks, “So, what is it?”

And where is she even supposed to begin?

Emma takes a breath to steady herself, nods at their waitress in thanks when she brings over their coffees and then just kind of deflates.

“Do you ever feel like nothing in your life is the way it should be? I feel so horrible even suggesting it considering how lucky I am, but there’s just this feeling in my chest and I…”

“You can’t control it?” Elsa chimes in, pressing at the same place on her chest that Emma has moved her hand to. “Yeah, I know it. I know the feeling.”

Slowing down, she meets Elsa’s eye across the table and sees only understanding mirrored back. “You do?”

“Yeah,” she repeats, nodding, “I thought I would be settled by now or, at least, be travelling the world with someone I love rather than by myself.”

“But you always seem like you have it all in order, like you’re  _happy_.”

She scoffs, taking a sip of her coffee, “Comes with being a big sister. I’ve had to have it together for Anna for so long that I forgot what breaking down looked like.” Leaning forward, she shares a small smile with Emma, “You know what I was doing when you called?”

“What?” she desperately wants to know.  _Needs_ to know that she’s not alone, that someone else is having these feelings.

Elsa tilts her head to the side, “I was marathoning Criminal Minds and crossing off my Tinder matches with wild abandon because I know I won’t be around long enough to go on a date. I’m off to Paris on Monday, Tokyo on Friday and Melbourne by next Tuesday. What kind of life is that? I go everywhere and it leaves me nowhere.”

“God,” Emma breathes out, “Fuck. I’ve been so jealous of you for so long. You’ve always seemed like you love your job. I never even thought about how hard it must be.”

She shrugs, “I am one of those lucky people who has great friends who stick by her despite it all. But I’m lonely, Emma. And I’m scared I will be for a long time. So, I know how you feel, believe me.”

And there it is again, that unnameable look in her eyes, except that Emma understands it now. It’s fear that her life will pass her by before she gets to live it, fear that she will have a portfolio full of beautiful photos and no one to take a photo with, fear that she is letting it all slip straight through her fingers.

Reaching across the table, Emma takes her friend’s hand.

Elsa looks up at her apologetically, “This was supposed to be your vent session.”

She just smiles, “No, I’m glad we did this. I feel like I’ve lost touch a bit.”

“You’re getting married, you’re supposed to be distracted.”

She scoffs a little, leaning back to take another bite of her cake. “It’s no excuse. We need to do this more often,” she says, adding, “And Elsa, you’re going to find that person to see the world with, you know?”

Elsa bites her lip, looking like she wants to say one thing but, instead, just agrees, “I know.”

…

She tells August that night, curled up beneath their covers, flashlight app open on her phone, she whispers what’s really been bothering her and hopes to all that is good in the world that he can make sense of what she can’t.

Pulling her closer, he tucks her head underneath his chin and kisses the crown of her head, “You’re worried about him? Why?”

She finds his heartbeat through his t-shirt, hand on his chest keeping her grounded, “Because he told me he loves me.”

She _feels_ the stutter beneath her fingertips, knows that he’s skipped a breath.

“And you him?”

She leans up on her elbow so that she can see his face. “No,” she says, “I just wanted you to know. I didn’t want what _we_ are to each other to change. I would have told you this _before_ and I wanted to tell you now.”

August brushes a hand over his face, but when it drops away, there’s a reassuring smile where there was an odd frustration only moments ago. “Well, I suppose I am marrying a very loveable person,” he says, rolling over to meet Emma’s lips in a light kiss.

And she thinks that’s it, that things will just carry on as normal now. Whatever normal is for their little group anyway. But the next night, as she arrives back at August’s place – having been staying there more and more frequently as the wedding looms – she hears Killian’s voice coming from the kitchen, the topic of discussion one that makes her want to stand in the hall and just listen for a moment.

“Do you really think it’s a good idea for you to come to the wedding, man?”

She holds her breath, hoping that they haven’t heard her.

“So it’s still happening? Despite…”

August cuts him off, “Despite what, Killian? You love her, but how does she feel about you?”

There’s a sound like a glass being set back down on the bench, then a heavy sigh, “There was a moment-”

Again, August cuts in, “Years ago; you were kids.”

Killian sounds frustrated by this, the glass on granite sounding out again, as though he’s just thrown back whatever was left of his drink, and Emma knows he’s speaking of a different moment, a moment within the haze of his darkest times. “So were you when you made that god forsaken pact,” he says instead, anger and hurt in his voice.

Emma’s about to step into the kitchen to cool off what is surely about to become very heated, but then she hears August clap Killian on what she guesses is his shoulder and knows that he has it under control. “We grew up, man. Somewhere between finishing college and now, Emma and I grew up. But you let yourself get left behind. An entire future wasted on just getting by.” There’s a pause and it breaks her heart that August is doing this. She should be in there, should be there to comfort Killian through this. But then August starts speaking again and Emma can do nothing but hear it out, “We’re stable and can do the things we want in life, have the house we desire, the adventures we’d always dreamed of. We may not be the definition of true love, but we do love each other.”

There’s a long moment when all she can hear are heavy breaths – a tell-tale sign that Killian is trying his best to keep his emotions in check. Eventually he whispers, “Aye, I know,” and, before she can even process the fact that she should really move now, he’s shuffled out of the kitchen and straight by her.

The look in his eyes says that he knows she’s heard the conversation, knows that they’ve reached this delicate impasse. He takes a deep breath, shakes his head and then, as if in slow motion, walks out the door and out of her life.

Her heart beats wildly in her chest, pain washing over her in a crashing wave. She wants to run after him, wants to hold his hand and tell him it’s all going to be okay, wants to press her lips against his cheek and breathe him in and have him know that he’s not worthless, he’s just stuck and he needs to get out. He needs to break this never ending cycle.

She’s halfway through contemplating what running out that door would mean, but then August’s hands are on her shoulders, thumbs pressing into the tension at the base of her neck. Her head rolls back and she flashes a tight lipped smile at him.

“I’m sorry you had to hear that,” he says, kissing the space behind her ear.

And maybe it’s for the best, maybe he can move on now, maybe, maybe, _maybe_ …

“It’s fine,” she says, turning away from the door and trying her best to not think about the fact that Killian would know that it was decidedly _not_ fine.

…

“Have you decided on a honeymoon destination yet?” Mary Margaret asks, handing Emma a hot chocolate as they walk over to her couch to start putting together some of the finer details for the reception. Having an elementary school teacher as a friend is definitely a bonus when it comes to arts and crafts, most of the creativity of anything to do with the wedding being attributed to her.

Emma sort of non-committedly shrugs and swipes a dollop of whipped cream – complete with a sprinkle of cinnamon because Mary Margaret is the best – from her drink, taking the time she’s licking it off her finger to think of an answer that’s not going to get her into trouble.

But, before she can say a thing, her friend has already cottoned on to exactly what that answer may be.

“Emma!” she says, “I understand cold feet, but you’ve got to make some decisions here. The wedding is only two weeks away.”

Mary Margaret’s hot chocolate has already been neglected to the coffee table as she watches her friend carefully. Eventually Emma sets hers down as well and decides that honesty might be the best policy here. Or, at least, as honest as she’s willing to go at this point.

“I don’t know that it’s cold feet. I just…” she pauses, struggling to find the right words, “You grew up in a well-off family, right? Went on family vacations and day trips and god knows how many holidays to Disneyland,” it’s hard to ignore the amount of Mickey ears spread around the Nolans’ apartment. “I never had that, never had the money for it or the family to do it with. Even when Marco took me in, he spent all his earnings on feeding us and making sure we had a roof over our heads.” Meeting her friend’s eyes, she sees a gentle understanding there but continues anyway, “I don’t know that I could justify spending all that money when it feels like I’ve only just gotten out of debt.”

She glances away, but Mary Margaret has already read between the lines, the other woman reaching out to take Emma’s hand, “Don’t want to travel with August, huh?”

She blows out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh, “God, is it that obvious?”

Smiling, Mary Margaret leans back, picking up her hot chocolate again, “Well, go on…”

“He wants to go somewhere far away with a beach and do nothing for weeks.”

“That doesn’t sound bad, Emma.”

Her voice is quiet as she says, “I’ve never even seen the Grand Canyon. Can’t I start there and work my way up to a vacation that focuses on nothing but my tan?” She shrugs, “I think I’m just overwhelmed with choices. There’s so much to do and he wants to lie on a beach.”

“I suppose that’s the beauty of being as young as we are – we still have time to do it all.”

She bites her lip, contemplating her friend’s words, “Are we, though?”

Seemingly not feeling the weight of the question Emma is asking, Mary Margaret shakes her head, “Of course we are. Just because we get two day hangovers now, does not mean we can’t travel the world.”

And it’s so damn simple that it almost hurts, the sentence bouncing around in her mind as they finish off their hot chocolates and put on _Bridesmaids_ while hand stamping out place cards. It’s all just so very _simple_. But Mary Margaret has always had the ability to do that, to take something complicated and break it down – she’s always been able to see the good in everything, to see the hope in the hopeless.

Long after the movie has finished and Emma has returned home – to her place, not to August’s; she’d told him that she just needs her own bed tonight – Mary Margaret’s words still echo in her ears.

It’s funny, as a teenager, being 30 had seemed so _old._ She’d thought that she would have done so much more, seen and felt so much more, than she has. But the more she thinks about it, the more her friend’s logic makes sense. Thirty isn’t the end of her youth, it’s just the beginning of the next phase of her life; of all their lives.

But the epiphany also comes with some interesting thoughts about just what the hell she is doing with her life.

Running a steaming hot shower, she sets up a calming playlist on her phone and climbs in while trying to quiet the loud voices in her mind who are telling her that she’s committing to something that maybe she doesn’t have to commit to. Not just yet. But the heat and prickling sting of the hot water along with the husky voice of Jack Savoretti only serve to draw out her angst until she just feels utterly exhausted and confused.

One simple little sentence and everything has somehow shifted.

Not bothering to dry off, she just wraps a towel around herself and pads over to the mirror, swiping a hand through the condensation that has gathered there and picking up her toothbrush in the same movement. It’s barely 7pm, but the idea of being completely clean and climbing into a bed she hasn’t slept in for over a week now sounds like actual heaven. She runs a comb through her wet hair and brushes her teeth at the same time, knowing that she could get either task done faster if she’d just focus on one, but also kind of not caring that it’s taking her ten minutes to clean her teeth. By the time she’s rinsed her mouth out, the mirror is almost clear and the dampness sticking to her skin is minimal.

She feels a strange peace settle over her, finally gaining back a little control from her spiralling thoughts. But it’s as she wipes her mouth and sets her toothbrush back down, in the space between songs changing, that she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror and her heart starts to pound again, her fingertips touching the porcelain of the sink to try and ground herself, realisation washing over her in the flash of a moment.

There is fear in her eyes. Plain, blatant fear. Familiar fear – the kind you feel when you think you’re missing out on something big and wonderful and life changing; the kind that approaches you without warning and without acquiescence. She recognises it so clearly that she wonders how she could have ever of missed it, Elsa’s own face swirling in images in her mind, her words about a life she wasn’t sure she could live for much longer echoing in her ears. A crushing clarity hits her all at once when she sees the look in Elsa’s eyes reflected in hers; she realises how similar they really are, what they’re both going through.

Just as Elsa is scared of never finding that balance in her life where she can travel the world with the person she loves, Emma is terrified of losing one of the greatest friendships of her life over a marriage that, yes, ensures that she will never be alone, but also ensures that she will never be with the man _she_ truly loves.

Because, _fuck_ , she thinks she could just love him; she loves Killian. And she wants to be there for him, through it all _with_ him, not as an outsider who has made it through the hardest times of her own life, but as someone he can relate to, his equal in it all.

…

The thing about startling revelations is that they come and then, moments later, they morph into every possibility of what can go wrong. The blind conviction disappears and leaves doubts of every breed in its wake. She’d gone to sleep that night convinced that ending her engagement to August would be the best decision. But then he’d arrived at her door the next morning with bear claws and coffee and a softness in his eyes that she’d become so used to having as her own that she just couldn’t do it. What does she know about love anyway? What if she’s wrong? What if August is her happy ending – it would be poetic after all; the little boy who stuck with her through childhood becomes the love of her life as an adult. The doubts swarm, the butterflies in her belly are replaced by an uneasy sickness and, somehow, she finds herself at her bachelorette party less than a week later, having not called off the wedding at all.

“Hey, why’s Killian just come on shift?” Ruby asks, bringing over a tray of margaritas for everyone, depositing it on the table they’ve located themselves at and handing them out to the group. “Shouldn’t he be partying with the guys?”

If there was a gun to Emma’s head, she wouldn’t be able to tell a soul how many cocktails she’s already had and that is the only reason she can think for blurting out the whole saga in a few short and slightly slurred words.

“Apparently Killian loves me and August thought it might be best for him to distance himself from the wedding.”

The other three ladies frown, setting their drinks down in a weirdly synchronised manner that has Emma bracing for the torrent of advice and lectures in the form of some kind of intervention. They don’t come though; instead, there’s a comforting hand on her shoulder from Mary Margaret and concerned looks from Ruby and Elsa.

“Emma, honey,” her pixie haired friend starts, “How do _you_ feel about all of this?”

Her heart hammers in her chest, the margaritas and shots from earlier churning in her belly as she faces the question she’s been avoiding. This is why she hasn’t gone to her friends about it; they make her face her reality and that’s something she’s not completely comfortable with. She feels overwhelmed is what she feels, the idea of Killian loving her still a foreign concept, the idea of marrying August just as foreign as well. She doesn’t know how to deal with all these emotions. Especially not with this much tequila in her system.

So she does the one thing she can and shrugs, answering her friend honestly, “I don’t know.”

The hand on her shoulder grips just a little tighter, “I think the fact that your immediate response wasn’t to jump to the defence of your relationship with August means that you do.” Mary Margaret shares a look with Ruby and Elsa, the other two nodding, and then she turns back to Emma with an apologetic gleam in her eyes. “You know how we used to bet on Ruby and Victor pulling themselves together?” she asks.

Emma nods, questions bouncing around her head, “Yeah.”

Mary Margaret continues, “We used to have a similar pot running for you and Killian.”

She frowns, “What? Since when? Why?” It seems all she’s capable of is asking a thousand questions.

Elsa moves closer, “Well, to be honest, I thought you two were already together in freshman year. I kind of drew attention to it and, before the end of the first week of classes, we’d all put our bets in.”

Ruby nods. “You and Killian, Emma, you have always been kindred spirits. But we figured, when you guys went through that whole not-talking-to-each-other phase while he was going through his Milah phase, that maybe you’d given it a shot in secret and thought it wasn’t for you. We kind of left the whole bet thing alone after that.” She shrugs, “But I have to admit to thinking about it more and more of late.”

Emma’s eyes flick past her friends, who are nodding in agreement, over to the bar, surprised to find blue eyes looking back at her. His stare is intense, imploring and curious, and she has _definitely_ had too much tequila because all she can feel is the sting of tears poking and prodding at the back of her eyes.

What is she _doing_?

She looks back at her friends who are all watching her carefully and it feels like a lifetime of emotions has hit her at once, air leaving her lungs in an almighty sigh that seems to carry with it a lot of the tightness she’s been feeling in her chest for the last week. It’s amazing what accepting it does, how it makes her feel to _finally_ make the decision in her mind to be with this man. She smiles, flicking her gaze back up to the bar and then it all comes crashing down.

He’s smiling, but it’s not at her. Instead it’s another woman, another beautifully dangerous woman who has her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her own smile buried in his neck. She pulls back slightly, her hands running down his chest and he looks like he fucking _adores_ her, the way his own hands have her gripped at the waist. _This,_ this is why reality is a cruel bitch and running away with your imagination is not worth the pain. Because he clearly doesn’t need her, clearly doesn’t care about or want her. He’s all talk and no action, just like so many other disappointments in her life.

And yes, she wants to watch him get better, wants to see him find himself again. But how can she help him when he refuses to help himself?

“Emma, are you okay?” Ruby asks, the others looking on at her in concern as well. She can feel the tear trails down her cheeks, knows that she’s probably a mess right now, but god, it hurts. It hurts so damn much.

Throwing a thoroughly not convincing smile at her friends, she nods, “Yeah, just give me a minute.”

Marching off, she feels the full effect of the alcohol she’s had tonight hit her and it’s all she can do to make it to a door marked with a human on it. She hits the wall as the door closes behind her and stumbles into a stall, slamming the lid of the toilet seat down and sitting on it, not caring if the white chiffon of her dress is ruined. She just needs a moment…just a second to get the swirling thoughts of that night on the boat out of her head, the way Killian’s fingers had felt on _her_ waist, the way she’d wanted more; _still_ wants more. The way he’d marked her neck in his kitchen. Before Milah, before everything went to complete and utter shit. He wanted her and she wanted him. God she _wants_ him. But she can’t; can’t be one of his conquests, can’t be a notch in his bedpost. She loved him too much. _Loves_ him.

She swears she’s going to kill Ruby. Who drinks this much tequila anyway? As soon as she gets out of here she’s going to tell her exactly that. No more tequila. _No more tequila_. “No more tequila.”

“Well, darling, I’m certainly not here to offer you any _more_ alcohol.”

_Shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucky last one up next! Thanks so much for reading; don’t forget to leave a comment ;)


	6. I Just Met You, I Can Read Your Thoughts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember all that waiting you did? This is what it was for :) (M rating, folks…)
> 
> Thanks to you beautiful people for reading and reviewing and liking and reblogging and all the rest. And thank you to @lifeinahole27 and @oubliette14 for being darlings and betaing these words. Big hugs!

Wait,” Emma says, holding out the hand that Killian had just dropped to grab his bicep and pull him back to her.

“Darling, if you’re going to throw up, I would suggest you at least make it to the female restrooms. I believe they’re slightly more hygienic.”

She smiles sadly up at him, his words still slightly hazy in her drunken state, “I don’t need to be sick. I just want to…” not really knowing how to finish that sentence, she just moves closer to him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and pulling herself into his chest.

He tenses for a second, but she feels his arms come around her waist after a moment, as though he understands just why she needs this. Her hands wander his back, nails trailing over the taught muscle they encounter, relishing in the slight hiss that escapes him when she hits the sensitive area near the base of his spine, goosebumps rising on his skin.

Pulling back just slightly, she looks up at him with a question in her eyes. They've always been able to communicate with simple looks and, if his nod is any indication, he knows exactly what she's asking. 

She swallows, eyes darting to his lips where his tongue has poked out to wet them. Her hand comes to rest against the back of his neck as his does the same to hers. And then, with a slight tilt of her head, she feels those warm lips against her own and it’s all she can do to not moan at the contact. Killian’s own grunted growl of approval is not lost on her though and she feels the kiss deepen almost immediately, bodies colliding, Killian’s hands seemingly pressing to every inch they can reach, fingers darting over the small of her back to the ridge of her shoulders, sending sharp spikes of pleasure coursing through her veins. He softly pulls the fullness of her bottom lip between his teeth and she opens up for him, tasting, teasing, testing the waters after so long apart. It doesn’t matter that they’re in a bathroom, or that he’s pressing her into a cool tile wall; all she can feel is _him_ and every lost moment they haven’t shared all poured into one beautifully earth shattering kiss.

“God”, he whispers as it all ends far too soon, foreheads resting together as the world rights itself around them. “Emma…”

She knows she has tears in her eyes again but simply doesn’t care. Sniffing, she pulls back, hands resting on his bare shoulders, relishing that last touch, as she whispers, “Goodbye, Killian.”

Her heart breaks watching the hope die on his face. But it’s for the best. It hurts too much to watch him hurting himself and she’s sure it hurts him too much watching her be happy with August. It’s better to walk away, to let him live his life without wondering “what if?”

“Please,” he says, “Please don’t do this. Not when you feel the way I know you do.”

She doesn’t dispute it this time, knows that he’ll see right through her lies. Instead, she hits back the only way she can think of, “Killian, it’s okay. You have someone out there waiting for you, you’d best get back to her.”

But, instead of nodding and packing up his emotions like he always has, he stands firm in front of her, something in his eyes shifting as her words hit him. “Emma, I have no one out there waiting for me.”

His voice doesn’t carry the trembling tone it had a few moments ago, as though he knows something she doesn’t.

“The girl you were with at the bar…?”

A smirk crosses his face, “Watching me, were you, Swan?”

She narrows her eyes at him, refusing to answer that. “Who is she then?”

She doesn’t even care if it sounds jealous or possessive. If not another conquest, then what the hell is going on?

“Just a bar regular,” he says simply, “Someone saying they’ll miss my service here when I leave.”

Ah, there it is. That secret in the quirk of his lips, the thing in his voice that sounds like hope and youth once again. She frowns, “You’re leaving?”

He licks his lips, one of his hands coming up to scratch behind his ear, “Yeah, I uh…” He drops his hand, meeting her eyes earnestly, “I got accepted into college. Going to finish my degree and work on some placement with local law authorities, see if I can work my way up.”

She doesn’t know what to say, eyes brimming with tears again and, god, she really needs to get a handle on that, but he’s doing it. He’s pulling himself up and out and she honestly doesn’t know what to say.

She must be smiling though, because he returns one in kind, eyes lighting up as she continues to stare at him dumbly.

“I should, uh…” he gestures a thumb over his shoulder, “Last shift and all.”

Finally, she nods, “Yeah. Yeah of course.” But before he can leave, she reaches out a hand to grasp his, squeezing gently, “You know, I had a really great tutor in college. He helped me a lot. So if you need someone to…”

He doesn’t let her finish, pulling her hand up to his lips and pressing a kiss against the back of her knuckles; another olive branch accepted, “I would love that.”

And it’s an understanding of sorts, not the beginning and not the end, just enough to know that their friendship is okay. But Emma has made the decision in her own mind already. She loves August, but she can’t do this to him – not when she is _in_ love with someone else.

…

Ruby, surprisingly, doesn’t have tequila in any form waiting for her. What she does have waiting is a cab and a knowing look in her warm eyes. When Emma looks up at her curiously, she only shrugs and says, “When you said you were getting married to August, I amended my bet on you and Killian. I always knew you would figure it out when it came close to walking away from him forever.”

And she should be mad at her friend, angry at all of them for not speaking up before now. But she knows why they didn’t, understands that she had to come to it on her own. Just as she’s been watching Killian hurt himself and hoping beyond hope that he would find his way out of his darkness, her friends have had her back – ready to catch her always, but letting her find her way to her own conclusions.

Before climbing into the taxi, Emma reaches up and pulls Ruby into a hug, whispering, “Thank you,” in her ear as she does. She may never know what she did to deserve the beautiful friends in her life, but she knows she will never be letting them go.

Mary Margaret steps forward to let her know that the driver has already been told the address of the bar the guys are at, “And I’ve clued David in, so he’ll probably be clearing the floor for you as we speak.”

Emma nods her thanks, wrapping her raven haired friend in a hug as well.

Elsa is the last one to step forward, her hands clasped in front of her as though she’s afraid to reach out. Even through her still slightly drunken haze, Emma can see the look of fear in her eyes. This time though, Emma leans forward, hands resting on Elsa’s shoulders, “It’s never too late, you know?”

Her wide eyes shift up to meet Emma’s, understanding blooming in her irises, her own moment of epiphany upon her.

Hugging Elsa as well, Emma finally steps into the very patiently waiting cab, waving at her friends as she departs, a grateful smile on her lips.

The ride over to the bachelor party is only about ten minutes, but it’s enough time for Emma to gather her thoughts and put them into something resembling coherency for the conversation she’s about to have. It’s been a weird few months, something oddly cathartic about the whole experience, and it’s kind of nice to know, finally, where she stands and how she’s going to move forward from this point.

She thinks of the burning potential of it all, of how only a few months ago she had thought that turning 30 was the beginning of the end. But she had been so wrong, so caught up in her past that she didn’t see the possibilities of her future. And, apparently, she’s not the only one – what with Ruby and Victor finally getting it together, with Elsa coming to grips with being able to put herself first and Killian starting up his studies again – they’re all doing this together, her little band of misfits.

The cab driver alerts her to the fact that they’ve arrived and, when she goes to pay, that he’s already been taken care of. She smiles gratefully at him, making a mental note to again thank her friends, and steps out into the cold night air.

It’s not a bar that she’s ever been to so, as she enters, she has to take a moment to look around, unsure of where August will be, or if he’ll even still be here. But he’s the friend who never leaves her, so of course he’s there, smiling and beckoning her over to the stools at the bar where he has sat himself, two glasses sitting in front of him.

“Water?” she asks, matching his smirk as she sits down opposite him, gesturing to the drinks.

He nods, clinking his glass against hers, “It seems to have magical properties when intoxicated.” She smiles and knocks back a few gulps of her own. “You look beautiful tonight.”

She fights the urge to roll her eyes at the fact that she knows she has tear tracks down her face and, instead, takes in the blue shirt he wears, the sleeves rolled up, his dark jeans, the look of unconditional love he sports in his eyes, “Yeah, you look pretty damn decent too.”

He waves over the bartender, ordering two glasses of champagne for them, leaving a twenty on the bar for when he returns with the drinks. Biting his lip, he hands one glass to Emma, holding the other up in a toast, “To happiness.”

She smiles warmly at him, her oldest friend, the person who stuck by her through it all, who has seen her at her worst, her best and every moment in between. “I do wish I could have loved you more.”

He tilts his glass towards hers and waits for her to meet it halfway, “You’ve always loved me just the right amount, Emma.”

She takes a sip of the champagne, setting her glass down and standing to wrap her arms around August. His breath tickles her ear as he sighs into the hold, returning the gesture in kind. She settles into the cradle of his thighs and just holds tight, happy to soak in this moment with her friend.

When she pulls back she’s crying again and she groans in frustration as she swipes at her bleary eyes.

August chuckles at her, “Never took you for this much of a crier.”

She hits his shoulder but there’s no heat in it, “Is it bad that I feel relieved?”

Pulling back, he clutches at his chest in mock pain, “You wound me.” At her insistent look, he acquiesces and answers honestly, “And no. I do too.”

There’s a quiet moment where they just share a small smile before August adds, “Although, if Killian doesn’t marry you by the time we’re all 40, I’m going to have to insist we try again.”

She laughs at that, a full belly laugh, not even caring that tears spring to her eyes once more, “ _You_  had a bet on us as well? When were you planning on telling me?”

He grins back at her mirth and knocks back the rest of his champagne, “Well, first I was hoping for Killian to get it together for you and then I was hoping you’d make it through the wedding before you made the realisation.”

She shakes her head incredulously, “Always one for dramatics.” She’s sure that when she processes this all at some point, she’ll probably be a little mad at him for planning on going through with the wedding despite his inkling that her heart might otherwise be occupied, but right now, all she can focus on is the fact that maybe everything is working out now just as it should.

“Yeah, well,” he starts, nodding his head towards the door; it’s late and definitely time to be getting home, “It’d make a hell of a story.”

…

Her place is strangely bare, despite having only moved a few little things into August’s apartment, she still feels their absence when she steps through her door. She’s never been more glad that she stuck by her plans and kept her own place though; the idea of coming home to anything less than this unsettles her. She takes a few moments to reacquaint herself with her space, runs her hands over the back of the old couch, checks the fridge and makes a mental note to get more milk in the morning, switches on the heating in the bathroom with every intention of coming back to the shower as soon as she finds her way out of the dress and heels she’s wearing.

In the end it’s just easier to sit down on the edge of her bed and let future-Emma handle the problem of how she’s going to find the energy to reach down to unbuckle the straps holding her feet into her shoes. It turns out that when all the alcohol leaves your system, you get sleepy. It’s probably a terrible idea to lie down, but it feels fucking fantastic to just let her eyes slip shut and luxuriate in having the whole bed to herself with no thoughts in her mind of when she will have to give it up next.

She wakes up to the sound of someone knocking on her front door, groaning as she sits up and – yep, there’s the problem that past-Emma should have dealt with – shifts her dress back down over her hips from where it has ridden up. She’s shaky on her heels as she yawns and makes her way towards the entrance of her apartment, checking the peephole and swinging the door open before she’s really registered who’s on the other side.

“Hey,” he says, his voice so much more awake than she feels.

It takes her a moment to grasp that Killian is standing outside of her apartment but, once she does, everything else that has occurred tonight starts to flood her mind and she finds herself instantly 100% more awake than she had been only seconds ago. Smiling up at him, she stands aside to let him in, “Hey.”

His lips brush her cheek as he walks past, heading straight for her kitchen. Some things never change.

Except that they do and he’s got a bag in his hand, the smell of takeaway from their favourite Thai place wafting through the air as she follows him. Cocking her head to the side, he reads her unasked question and answers simply with, “I thought it was about time that things changed.”

And she  _swears_  on everything she owns, everything that she’s lost and gained, that she had intended to go into this, whatever  _this_  is, slowly and carefully. But he’s standing right there unpacking Pad Thai in her kitchen like he  _belongs_ there and, fuck it, he just might.

“Are you hungry?” she asks, her voice surprisingly not belying her nerves.

He looks at her curiously and she can see him trying to read what answer she wants to hear. “I just thought you might want something after Ruby…”

She cuts him off, shaking her head. “Are you  _hungry_?” she asks again, her meaning becoming apparent to him after a moment, his eyes widening before he steps away from the food.

“Aye,” he says, his voice unfairly husky.

She licks her lips, mirroring his movements until they’re in the middle of her kitchen and there’s no backing out, not this time. He tentatively reaches for her hand, but she’s already got hers halfway across the void and there’s nothing else for it because there’s no longer a teetering ledge between them. Instead, there’s clarity and sureness and there’s him and her and, before she knows what to do or to say, his lips are on hers and she really doesn’t have to consciously do or say anything. Her instincts take over, hands shifting over hard muscle and soft warmth until they settle, innocently enough, on his biceps.

But neither of them want innocent if the dirty way their mouths move together is anything to go by. He nips at her bottom lip, tongue tasting the passion at its tip before he drags her forward, hands firmly pressed against her ass, hips colliding as he holds her tight. She moans as his exploration moves down her jawline and her neck, teeth biting and grazing while her hands stay gripped around his arms, unable to let go because, god, she might just fall.

He licks the line of her collarbone, the fingers of one hand pulling the straps of her dress and bra aside and off her shoulder, sucking a bruise into her skin, marking her as his and, “Mmm, yes,” she whispers through panting breaths, grinding her hips down and feeling his hardness against her pelvic bone. He grunts in agreement, gripping her side and guiding her through the motion again and again until they are desperate and breathless, her dress bunching at her hips, his trousers rumpled and all too tight.

She finally finds it within herself to let go of his arms, lets her hands trail down his torso and to the waistband of his pants, pulling his shirt from its confines and popping the button and fly in one smooth motion.

“Emma,” he breathes, voice hot in her ear as the hand on her ass shifts down the back of her thigh to lift it, her hand trapped down his pants in between them, the backs of her knuckles pressing against her own heat as Killian lines them up. “Shall we…?” he asks, the rest of his question cut off with the way she cups him and adds just the right amount of pressure.

“Mmm,” she moans, the only way she can agree with him in the state she’s in. Because she is completely and utterly wrecked for him. But it’s enough for him to know what she’s saying, his other hand reaching down to treat her other leg in the same way. She jumps a little to help him settle her on his hips, relishing in the way their cores meet deliciously through the fabric of their underwear as her hand leaves him to hold on around his neck. God she can’t wait to have him naked. She honestly doesn’t know how she’s waited this long.

He starts walking backwards – more a stumbling sort of motion with her wrapped around his waist – towards her bedroom, but she breaks away from licking her way down his neck to grab a hold of the bathroom doorway, gripping it tightly even as he tries to move away. He eventually gets it though, slipping through the frame to enter the room.

It’s almost too warm in there from the heater she’d turned on earlier and she finds herself unwinding her legs from around his waist to hop down and make her way over to the switch on the wall, dialling down the heat and falling back into his arms as they wrap around her waist from behind, now noticeably devoid of shirt.

His chest presses against her shoulders as she rocks back, humming contentedly while his lips get to work on marking a hot trail down her neck. Guiding his hands, she brings them from her hips to her breasts, sighing softly when he squeezes the rounded flesh. “Shower?” she requests, relishing in the groan he drops just below her ear, the rumble of it setting her skin on fire.

“Anything you like, darling,” he agrees, spinning her in his arms and reaching down for the hem of her dress to pull it over her head.

And she really does like the sound of that.

He drops to his knees in front of her, hands reaching for the buckles of her left shoe, fingers nimbly undoing the straps as he continues worshipping her body in kisses, this trail leading from the sensitive skin above her knee to the apex of her thighs. And, god is she glad she has a wall behind her to support her weight because her legs are doing a pretty crappy job of it with his nose brushing the dampened lace over her core.

The other shoe comes off easily, his hands guiding her foot from it in soft movements, and then she is at precisely the right height for his lips to ghost over her mound. She tucks her thumbs into the sides of her underwear, sliding them down a little before he catches on and tugs them the rest of the way, throwing the scrap over his shoulder and kissing the crease of her thigh before nudging one of her legs to widen her stance so that he can lick a stripe from her core to her clit, making her shiver with the warm wetness of his tongue.

He pulls back briefly, licking his lips, eye flicking up to meet hers with pupils blown wide. He whispers something about the gods and heavens before his hand snakes up the back of her thigh, fingers gripping the round globe of her ass as he pulls her forward again, like a man starved. She yelps, _actually_ _yelps_ , as he laps at her opening, dragging his tongue in figure eights all the way up to her clit. One hand kneads her ass, the other trails delicately along the sensitive skin of her inner thigh until it reaches its intended target, one digit slipping inside of her, curling and tapping gently against that little spot that makes her see stars.

At some point, she reaches out for something to hold, grabbing at a towel rail and gripping it for dear life while he tears apart her world and rebuilds it from pleasure up. She can barely hear her panting breaths over the sound of her own heartbeat, but she knows she’s throwing in a good couple of moans there too. It feels uncontrollable and wanton, this release building up inside of her. His tapping motion becomes more precise as she reaches her peak, another finger dipping into her heat easily as he continues to work her.

“God, right there,” she breathes, her fingers curling around his hair and keeping him in place, “So close.”

She feels, more than hears, his grunt of approval, the vibrations sending her pitching forward off the wall as she curls around him, her body spasming in the most delightful way. His fingers continue to move within her, lightly stroking her walls as she comes down, his mouth still blowing hot breaths across the most sensitive part of her.

They stay that way for a few moments, just breathing heavily against each other until Killian nudges at her belly, his hair tickling her, and she stands up straight again, wincing when the heated skin of her back hits the cool tiles.

“You are a vision, Emma,” he says against her belly, kissing his way up her torso as he rises to his feet, “Bloody stunning.”

She doesn’t know why it’s that which makes her blush when he’s just been between her thighs, but she feels herself redden at his words anyway, hiding her face in his shoulder as his arms come around her once more. His hips roll forward and she feels the heavy hardness of him against her, stoking the heat that’s still sizzling just below the surface of her soul. She reaches down, eager to have him naked against her and he seems to be in the same frame of mind, hands gliding up her back to undo the clasp of her bra. His fly is still open from her wandering hands before so she pulls her arms away from him long enough to let her bra fall from her, then works on tugging his pants over his hips and down his legs, taking his underwear with them. His knees are red from where he’d been kneeling before her and she wants to return the favour, sink to her own knees and take the thick length of him in her mouth, but he seems to have other ideas, hauling her against him, a leg lifted over his hip as he runs his cock through her folds.

They move against one another slowly, hands braced on whatever parts of the other they can grip as they watch his reddened flesh drag through her wetness. And she could come like this, this barely there grinding lighting up her arousal like nothing she’s ever felt. And maybe it’s just because it’s been a while, but, more likely, maybe it’s because it’s _him,_ she could _definitely_ come like this.

Her head tips back, eyes on the ceiling in an attempt to hold on, because watching him, watching _them_ , so close, so intimate, it’s doing things to her. And she’d almost feel embarrassed as her legs tighten around him, as her hands pinch at the skin of his neck and his bicep, and she feels that flush light up her skin again – yeah, she’d almost feel embarrassed except that it feels so damn good, his hardened length so fucking hot against her core.

“I want you in me,” she moans, still coming down from her high, head still swimming and eyes still pointed upwards, “I need you.”

He chuckles, lips on her neck, “You have me, Emma. In whatever way you want. You have me.”

And that feels so big that she doesn’t quite know what to do with it, doesn’t quite know if _he knows_ what he’s signing up for. But then he leans back and she sees it in his eyes, the honesty, the way it always was, the way it could be again and, fuck, “I love you.”

It’s out of her mouth before she can think about it, before she can second guess herself, before he can say it first. It’s out there and he smiles and she doesn’t think she’s ever seen anything more beautiful. “Say it again,” he whispers, his voice joyous behind the quiet sound.

It comes easily, “I love you, Killian.”

She thinks he might lift her and spin her like something out of an old movie, but he only hugs her close to him, their bodies pressed together as his lips mark every inch of her bare skin that he can reach. And then he _does_ lift her with a grunt, stepping them towards the shower and switching the water on. He backs in, hissing as ill-temperatured water hits his skin, but it eases as he lowers her to the ground and then, as her feet touch tile, the water is just right.

He kisses her, the spray from the shower spilling over his shoulders and between their bodies until they are both underneath it. His hands come up to cup her face, thumbs swiping below her eyes where she can only imagine there’s a build-up of cried mascara and eyeliner. He doesn’t seem to mind though, methodically cleaning her skin until she feels like she can blink again and not have her eyelashes stick together.

Smiling up at him, she reaches a hand down between their bodies, fingers closing around his cock. He thrusts his hips forward at the touch, the tip of him pushing through her fingers to graze her belly and she does it again, building a steady pace until he grips her wrist and tells her, “Stop, darling.”

She’s never seen a man more wrecked than he is in this moment and she wants to hold onto it forever. Even with his hand wrapped around her wrist, he lets her start the rhythm up again and she smiles up at him as he tips his head back under the hot spray of the water, a growl escaping his lips, “You’ll be the death of me.”

It’s her turn to chuckle lightly as she loosens her grip, turning to face the wall of the shower, throwing a glance over her shoulder. His eyes meet hers as he steps forward to grab her hands and place them on the glass in front of them before running his fingers down her arms and to her slim waist. His wet kisses land on her shoulder, his body aligning with hers as though it’s the most natural thing in the world, and perhaps it is. Perhaps this was the story that was always meant to be told. Perhaps she was always meant for him and him for her.

Her head drops to the cool glass as he slides through her folds, bumping her clit deliberately before lifting enough to slip into her welcoming heat. There’s a murmur of, “Gods” and “Yes” and “More,” all echoing off the bathroom tiles, the stutter of the water where it hits their skin and then the shower door as they move increasing as his thrusts become more rapid.

“So hot,” he whispers against the lobe of her ear, hand slipping across her front and pulling her back into him, palm on her breast as she whimpers in return.

Her hands grip at the glass, trying to find something solid to hold onto and slipping instead, just barely clinging to the edge of her sanity as he drives her higher and higher.

Words of love escape her lips and his, mingling with the thick steam until they don’t know who uttered them, just that they are surrounded by them.

His free hand follows the path of her smooth skin, between her legs, until his fingers touch upon the swollen bundle of nerves designed to make her scream. And fuck, she almost does, panting out moans as he works her to her next high.

And then he’s whispering for her to come with him, a constant mantra as she feels him starting to lose control.

“Mmhmm,” she hums, “Close.”

“Me too, darling,” he breathes, “Come for me.”

And she does, because after denying him for so damn long, it feels liberating to give and give and _give,_ her body contracting in tight spasms, drawing him over the edge and into joint bliss. She can feel him swell and groan as he stills inside of her, the water running steady as he holds her close.

…

He probably doesn’t realise he’s doing it, running his finger across the space where her engagement ring had been just a few hours earlier; she’d handed it back to August as he’d seen her into a cab.

Her hand rests on his chest, his heartbeat thumping beneath her palm. She hasn’t completely dried off from the shower, but it’s warm in her apartment and she’s more than content to just stay here, wrapped in a towel and in Killian Jones.

She can feel his smile as he kisses her forehead, drawing her curious eyes up until they meet his. “What?” she asks, her voice soft.

He bites his lip and she can see that he’s debating telling her. Leaning in to press a light kiss to his chin, she nods, urging him on, “What is it?”

His finger stops moving over hers, “I wish I had quit sooner. I wish I didn’t waste so much time.”

She frowns, shaking her head, “You needed that time.”

“But when I think of where we could have been…”

“We’re here now. You _needed_ that time, Killian. I never wanted you to change for me. I wanted you to be happy.”

He smiles lazily, hand running up over her shoulder to tangle in the loose waves of her still drying hair, “I am so happy.”

She thinks back to all those time he’s expressed the same sentiment, all those times he’s tried to convince her of a falsehood. But this time, for the first time in a long time, she believes him.

…

It turns out that cancelling a wedding is almost as difficult as it is to plan one so, in the end, they decide to have a Valentine’s Day dinner a few days early – just the eight of them – utilising the gorgeous glass-front room that Emma and August had hired for their wedding reception.

Despite having been inseparable for the past week, Emma decides to sit away from Killian, in between Elsa and David, enjoying the company of her friends as they eat and drink and toast to many more happy years ahead. She’s not sure what the protocol on dating your ex-fiancé’s friend is in this particular situation because, although August had explicitly stated his support for the pair, there’s surely some kind of grey area that they’re ignoring.

Besides, she’s quite happy to keep their relationship a secret for a little while; the group will know soon enough, she’s sure.

August leans back on his chair, reaching behind Elsa, who he’s seated on the other side of, to tap Emma on the shoulder. She smiles, leaning back as well. “You okay?” she asks.

He nods, “Was just going to ask you the same thing.”

“Most relaxed wedding ever,” she teases with a grin.

“Oh!” Elsa exclaims then, “Speaking of wedding. I have the cake prepared.”

Emma frowns, swinging forward in her seat again, “You know this isn’t a wedding, though, right? Elsa, you didn’t have to make the cake.”

Elsa just rolls her eyes, “When are you going to learn that the baking is my love and I’m more than willing to show off my skills?”

Smiling at her friend, the blonde hops up and makes her way into the kitchens like she owns the place, returning seconds later with a tiered cake on a rolling trolley. The typical bride and groom that sit atop a wedding cake have been replaced with an assortment of flowers, pink in colour and bright against the white of the royal icing. Elsa has piped intricate lacing onto the lower tier, the delicate sugar work a pale ice-blue, offering a perfect contrast of colours.

Emma’s eyebrows nearly raise right off her head, “Elsa, it’s gorgeous.”

She shrugs, a knowing smirk on her lips, “Yeah, well…” Then, very aware that all the attention has turned to her, she gestures towards the knife on the side of the platter, “Who’s going to do the honours?”

In the end, they decide it should be Emma and August, because despite them not getting married, they’d still sprung for an exceptional dinner. The two stand side by side, a hand each on the knife, looking up to smile as Elsa grabs her camera. Across the room, Mary Margaret yells, “Make a wish.”

Emma’s eyes flick to Killian, the man she loves staring right back at her with affection in his gaze, before she turns to August, “I think this wish is all yours.”

She sees him put the pieces together in record time, eyes widening as he smiles and whispers a quick, “About time,” before putting pressure on the knife and cutting all the way through.

It’s not until everyone has their cake served up to them and Emma is finally seated back at the table, that she realises it’s not the dark chocolate mud cake she had requested, but instead the rich butterscotch.

Elsa seems to notice the realisation, nudging Emma with her shoulder, “I hope it’s okay. Call it baker’s intuition but I could just tell that you liked this one so much more.”

Emma smiles, her eyes again darting to Killian across the table. He’s mid conversation with August, but seems to feel her gaze on him, head turning just slightly to let her know that he is aware of her. “Yeah,” she says, “I really do love it.”

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This little tale is, for all intents and purposes, over. There will be a little epilogue coming up in the hopefully not too distant future to tie up those loose ends ;) I hope you’ve enjoyed this as much as I have. I know August is a bit of a polarising character and I want to thank you all for sticking with me through this. And last, but not least - thoughts?


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